“‘I shall send you in charge of one of the boats,’ he told me. ‘You will take Sheila with you.’ He twisted his lips into a wry smile. ‘Poor Sheila!’ he croaked.
“I was dumfounded. I scrutinized the man carefully. He was as sober and as collected as we are now. His eyes were steady. A blob of sea broke over the shattered bulwarks and flooded to our knees. He did not notice it.
“‘You saved the Western Pacific,’ I said, ‘and you have ruined yourself. Man, man!’
“I was terribly angry with him. Yet he stood in the midst of that tragedy like one who had succeeded, not failed. He dominated us all, a kind of heroic and pitiable figure.
“So we got into the boats—the sea was going down rapidly, and the Western Pacific sent over four boats to help out. Into the last boat we put Sheila, dry eyed, cold, almost, one might say, frozen in her expression. Harry handed her over the broken rail with a kind of gentle compassion. He did not say anything to her. It happened that it was one of the liner’s boats and the mate in charge stared up at Owen expectantly. The Shearwater was almost awash. Still Harry made no movement to get into the boat. Instead, he thrust me in and I found myself seated with Sheila.
“‘Hurry up, sir!’ cried the mate in our boat.
“But Harry shook his head with a firm and determined movement.
“‘Shove off!’ he ordered, and the men obeyed like children. But their officer bawled out, again and again, vainly. Harry Owen stared at us all, rising and falling on the spumy seas, and then turned away and went into his own cabin. As he closed the door the Shearwater dipped her battered bows deeply. A surge overran her. She lurched to starboard, righted herself and slowly went down. She seemed to stop when the water was halfway up the deckhouse and floated a moment, half submerged. I think we all stared at Harry Owen’s door.
“It did not open.
“As I told you, Sheila did not utter a cry; but her fingers were set in my flesh so I had the impression of some one screaming. A moment later the Shearwater vanished.