“Well, Rolleston, what do you think of it?”
‘‘Terrible indeed!’’ replied the Englishman. “Two days ago, the Ville de Dunkerque. To day another ship, and in the same place. There’s a coincidence about it. . . .”
‘‘That’s precisely what a second telegram says,’’ exclaimed Simon, continuing to read:
“3. 0. p. m.—The steamer sunk between Folkestone and Boulogne is the transatlantic liner Brabant, of the Rotterdam-Amerika Co., carrying twelve hundred passengers and a crew of eight hundred. No survivors have been picked up. The bodies of the drowned are beginning to rise to the surface.
‘‘There is no doubt that this terrifying calamity, like the loss of the Ville de Dunkerque two days ago, was caused by one of those mysterious phenomena which have been disturbing the Straits of Dover during the past week and in which a number of vessels were nearly lost, before the sinking of the Brabant and the Ville de Dunkerque.”
The two young men were silent. Leaning on the balustrade which runs along the terrace of the club-house, they gazed beyond the cliffs at the vast circle of the sea. It was peaceful and kindly. innocent of anger or treachery; its near surface was crossed by fine streaks of green or yellow, while, farther out, it was flawless and blue as
