on the deck, nothing was to be heard. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to make our way below as best we could. Fortunately I had had the forethought to bring with me a small piece of candle, which came in very handily at the present juncture, seeing that the cuddy, when we reached the companion ladder, appeared to be wrapt in total darkness. Very carefully I stepped inside, lit the candle, and then with Mr. Wetherell at my heels betook myself down the steps.
Arriving at the bottom we found ourselves in a fair-sized saloon of the old-fashioned type. Three cabins stood on either side, while from the companion ladder, by which we had descended, to a long cushioned locker right aft, under the wheel, ran a table covered with American cloth. But not a sign of a man of any kind was to be seen. I opened cabin after cabin, and searched each with a like result. We were evidently quite alone in the ship.
"What do you make of it all?" I asked of Mr. Wetherell.
"It looks extremely suspicious," he answered. "But perhaps we're here too early for them. But see, Mr. Hatteras; there's something on the table at the farther end."
So there was—something that looked very much like a letter. Together we went round to the end of the table, and there, surely enough, was a letter pinned to the American cloth, and addressed to Mr. Wetherell in a bold and rather quaint handwriting.
"It's for you, Mr. Wetherell," I said, removing the pins and presenting it to him. Thereupon we sat down beside the table, and my companion broke the seal with trembling fingers. It was not a very long letter, and ran as follows:
