“What a fictionist the man must be!” he exclaimed.  “Why doesn’t he write a novel?  Mr. Swinton, I wish you would take a few notes for me of what Mr. Santoris said about that collar of jewels,—­I should like to keep the record.”

Mr. Swinton smiled an obliging assent.

“I certainly will,”—­he said.  “I was fortunately present when Mr. Santoris expressed his curious ideas about the jewels to Mr. Harland.”

“Oh, well, if you are going to record it,”—­said Mr. Harland, half laughingly—­“you had better be careful to put it all down.  The collar—­according to Santoris—­belonged to Dr. Brayle when his personality was that of an Italian nobleman residing in Florence about the year 1537—­he wore it on one unfortunate occasion when he murdered a man, and the jewels have not had much of a career since that period.  Now they have come back into his possession—­”

“Father, who told you all this?”

The voice was sharp and thin, and we turned round amazed to see Catherine standing in the doorway of the saloon, white and trembling, with wild eyes looking as though they saw ghosts.  Dr. Brayle hastened to her.

“Miss Harland, pray go back to your cabin—­you are not strong enough—­”

“What’s the matter, Catherine?” asked her father—­“I’m only repeating some of the nonsense Santoris told me about that collar of jewels—­”

“It’s not nonsense!” cried Catherine.  “It’s all true!  I remember it all—­we planned the murder together—­he and I!”—­and she pointed to Dr. Brayle—­” I told him how the lovers used to meet in secret,—­the poor hunted things!—­how he—­that great artist he patronised—­came to her room from the garden entrance at night, and how they talked for hours behind the rose-trees in the avenue—­and she—­she!—­I hated her because I thought you loved her—­you!” and again she turned to Dr. Brayle, clutching at his arm—­“Yes—­I thought you loved her!—­but she—­she loved him!—­and—­” here she paused, shuddering violently, and seemed to lose herself in chaotic ideas—­ “And so the yacht has gone, and there is peace!—­and perhaps we shall forget again!—­we were allowed to forget for a little while, but it has all come back to haunt and terrify us—­”

And with these words, which broke off in a kind of inarticulate cry, she sank downward in a swoon, Dr. Brayle managing to save her from falling quite to the ground.

Everything was at once in confusion, and while the servants were busy hurrying to and fro for cold water, smelling salts and other reviving cordials, and Catherine was being laid on the sofa and attended to by Dr. Brayle, I slipped away and went up on deck, feeling myself quite overpowered and bewildered by the suddenness and strangeness of the episodes in which I had become involved.  In a minute or two Mr. Harland followed me, looking troubled and perplexed.

“What does all this mean?” he said—­“I am quite at a loss to understand Catherine’s condition.  She is hysterical, of course,—­but what has caused it?  What mad idea has she got into her head about a murder?”