Moreton Fitch made a sign to the little Japanese, and told him to get a package out of his car. He returned in a moment, and laid it at our feet on the floor.
"Dayrell was very proud of his wife's voice," said Fitch as he took the covers off the package. "Just before he was taken ill he conceived the idea of getting some records made of her songs to take with him on board ship. The gramophone was found amongst the old clothes. The usual sentimental stuff, you know. Like to hear it? She had rather a fine voice."
He turned a handle, and, floating out into the stillness of the California night, we heard the full rich voice of a dead woman:
"Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low,
And the flickering shadows softly come and go."
At the end of the stanza, a deep bass voice broke in with, "Encore! Encore!"
Then Fitch stopped it.
When we were in the car on our way home, I asked if there were any clue to the fate of the Japanese cook, in the last sentence of the log of the Evening Star.
"I didn't want to bring it up before his brother," said Knight, "they are a sensitive folk; but the last sentence was to the effect that the Evening Star had now been claimed by the spirit of Captain Dayrell, and that the writer respectfully begged to commit hari kari."
Our road turned inland here, and I looked back toward the fishing village. The night was falling, but the sea was lilac-colored with the afterglow. I could see the hut and the little birdhouse black against the water. On a sand dune just beyond them, the figures of the fisherman Kato and his wife were sitting on their heels, and still watching us. They must have been nearly a mile away by this time; but in that clear air they were carved out sharp and black as tiny ebony images against the fading light of the Pacific.