she heard a door close.  But the most surprising reminiscence developed by the late incident was from Mrs. Brimmer’s nurse, Susan.  As it, apparently, demonstrated the fact that Mr. Hurlstone not only walked but talked in his sleep, it possessed a more mysterious significance.  It seemed that Susan was awakened one night by the sound of voices, and, opening her door softly, saw a figure which she at first supposed to be the Senor Perkins, but which she now was satisfied was poor Mr. Hurlstone.  As there was no one else to be seen, the voices must have proceeded from that single figure; and being in a strange and unknown tongue, were inexpressibly weird and awful.  When pressed to remember what was said, she could only distinguish one word—­a woman’s name—­Virgil—­Vigil—­no:  Virginescia!

“It must have been one of those creatures at Callao, whose pictures you can buy for ten cents,” said Mrs. Brimmer.

“If it is one of them, Susan must have made a mistake in the first two syllables of the name,” said Mrs. Markham grimly.

“But surely, Miss Keene,” said Miss Chubb, turning to that young lady, who had taken only the part of a passive listener to this colloquy, and was gazing over the railing at the sinking sun, “surely you can tell us something about this poor young man.  If I don’t mistake, you are the only person he ever honored with his conversation.”

“And only once, I think,” said the young girl, slightly coloring.  “He happened to be sitting next to me on deck, and I believe he spoke only out of politeness.  At least, he seemed very quiet and reserved, and talked on general topics, and I thought very intelligently.  I—­should have thought—­I mean,” she continued hesitatingly—­“I thought he was an educated gentleman.”

“That isn’t at all inconsistent with photographs or sleep-walking,” said Mrs. Brimmer, with one of her vague simplicities.  “Uncle Quincey brought home a whole sheaf of those women whom he said he’d met; and one of my cousins, who was educated at Heidelberg, used to walk in his sleep, as it were, all over Europe.”

“Did you notice anything queer in his eyes, Miss Keene?” asked Miss Chubb vivaciously.

Miss Keene had noticed that his eyes were his best feature, albeit somewhat abstracted and melancholy; but, for some vague reason she could not explain herself, she answered hurriedly that she had seen nothing very particular in them.

“Well,” said Mrs. Markham positively, “when he’s able to be out again, I shall consider it my duty to look him up, and try to keep him sufficiently awake in the daytime to ensure his resting better at night.”

“No one can do it, dear Mrs. Markham, better than you; and no one would think of misunderstanding your motives,” said Mrs. Brimmer sweetly.  “But it’s getting late, and the air seems to be ever so much colder.  Captain Bunker says it’s because we are really nearing the Californian coast.  It seems so odd!  Mr. Brimmer wrote to me that it was so hot in Sacramento that you could do something with eggs in the sun—­I forget what.”