‘What the men are talking about,’ said I.
‘Well, miss,’ said Finn, ‘as the boat that Mr. Monson had charge of this afternoon was a-leaving the wreck, the men heard themselves hailed by a woice that begged ’em, in God’s name, not to leave the party as called behind. Mr. Monson, sir, you heard it likewise.’
‘I did,’ I answered.
‘Another mystery,’ exclaimed Miss Laura, ‘quite as dismal and astonishing as Muffin’s phosphoric warning.’
‘Thanks, Finn; that’s all I wanted to ask you,’ said I, and we left him to resume our walk.
‘Tell me about this voice,’ said the girl.
I did so, putting plenty of colour into the picture, too, for I wanted her to sympathise with my superstitious mood, whilst up to now there was nothing but incredulity and a kind of coquettish pique in her voice and manner.
‘And you are afraid of this voice, Mr. Monson? I wonder at you!’
‘You should have my full consent to wonder,’ said I, ‘if it were the first time; but there was the other night, you know, with solid, sour, uncompromising old Crimp to hear me witness, and now again to-day, with a boatful of men for evidence.’
‘Really, Mr. Monson, what do you want to make yourself believe?’ she asked, with a tone like a half-laugh in her speech; ‘the dead cannot speak.’