had jumped overboard, and the captain had stopped the engines and lowered a boat in the hope of picking her up before she sank! And he himself—why was he skulking below like this? He had only too much reason to fear that he must have been a witness of the fatal leap; and, instead of plunging overboard to the rescue as a hero ought, had rushed down here ignominiously.
Had he been observed? Was his connection with the tragedy suspected? Could he venture up on deck and inform himself? He tried, but his nerve failed him, and he sank into one of the chairs in a state of almost unbearable suspense.
Just at this moment, he saw the skirts of a muslin gown appear at the head of the broad companion which led to the dining-saloon. Someone, a girl evidently, was descending. Presently he saw her fully revealed—it was Miss Tyrrell.
Perhaps he had never been so glad to see her before. She was a friend, a dear friend. She, at least, would sympathize with him, would understand that it was not his fault if he had been too late to avert a catastrophe.
