“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
ner of a towel stuck in the water pitcher. These primitive ablutions over, he felt in his pocket for Cloud’s key, removed from behind the door an old worn cap to take the place of the one lost overboard, and slowly climbed down the ladder.
Outside Cloud’s room he stopped and listened. There was nothing going on in there and he knocked softly. There was no response. He thrust the key into the lock turned it and opened the door. The stateroom was empty; the bird had flown. Moreover, the steward had been in and put things quite to rights. The place looked just like any other second-class cabin,—not a bit like the den of a murderer or the son of a marquis or of any other extraordinary or sensational person. The silk curtains bellied gently at the port-holes and over the berth; there was an overcoat—yes! the very overcoat Cloud had hung over the rail—peacefully hooked against the back of the door; and there were clean sheets and pillow-cases on the bed. No sign anywhere of Cloud’s suicidal attempt. Where was he? Overboard, perhaps?
A shadow darkened the wall and the gaunt114
