‘Why, that’s it,’ I answered; ‘nobody knows, and I don’t think anybody ever will know.’
‘Is he dead?’ asked Miss Temple.
‘I cannot say,’ I responded; ‘his hat was cut through and his head laid open. There is a dreadful illustration of what has happened close against the wheel.’
‘In what form?’ she asked.
‘Blood!’ said I.
‘Why, it’s murder, then!’ cried Colledge.
‘It looks like it,’ said I, with a glance at Miss Temple’s face, that showed white as alabaster to the moonlight, whilst in each glowing dark eye sparkled a little star of silver far more brilliant than the ice-like flash of the diamonds which trembled in her ears. ‘But be the assassin what he may, I’ll swear by every saint in the calendar that he’s not aboard this ship.’
‘Pray, explain, Mr. Dugdale,’ exclaimed Miss Temple in a voice of curiosity at once haughty and peevish.
I made no answer.
‘My dear fellow, what do you want to imply?’ said Colledge: ‘that the man was struck down—by somebody out of doors?’ and his eyes went wandering over the sea.