"Am I a murderer?"

So asked of his conscience, in fear and trembling, Henry Carew, as he stood alone upon the deck of the labouring vessel, surrounded by a waste of tumultuous waters.

"Not a murderer!" he cried aloud. "Oh no, not that!"

Then he argued with himself. "Had I done all that a man could, I think I should have been unable to save them. True, I lost my presence of mind. I did not stir a hand to help them; but that is not murder. Poor Allen! poor Allen! But no; this is a morbid fancy. At least I am innocent of that crime."

He looked round at the wild sea, invisible on that starless night save for the white foam that hissed on the tops of the waves.

"And now to make the best of my position. How fortune has turned! I, who two days back was surrounded by dangers, have nothing to fear now."

Then he broke into a wild laugh, not of merriment or exultation, but a sort of hysterical effervescence that came of a mind that had long been tasked beyond its strength by violent emotions.

But he fully realised what a great advantage the loss of his two companions signified for him. Yes, even at that moment when he beheld them drowning before him, the profit their death would bring him had flashed across his brain. Little wonder that he asked his conscience that terrible question, "Am I a murderer?"

How simple his course seemed now! It needed little thought to decide on it. He knew that Allen was accustomed to undertake long cruises, and therefore would not be missed for some time. Again, the barrister was somewhat careless in his correspondence; so the fact of his neglecting to write to his friends would surprise and alarm no one. How easy, then, for Carew to impersonate him! He would sail the yacht into some Dutch port—no very difficult task; and once there, he could rely on his wits to make the most of the opportunities chance should throw in his way. Most probably he would sell the yacht and take a passage on some vessel bound for a South American harbour. Like most educated fugitives from justice, he turned to the Argentine Republic as being the safest of sanctuaries.

Carew's eyes, accustomed to observe the signs of the weather, told him that the wind was likely to freshen; so he set about making himself as comfortable as possible for the night. He lowered the foresail, and still further reduced the mainsail by tricing up the tack. Then, with jib-sheet hauled to windward and tiller lashed, the yacht lay hove-to. After watching her for a few minutes, Carew saw that she was behaving admirably, and that he could with safety stay below the whole night if he chose, and leave the little vessel to take care of herself.

"It will have to blow a good deal harder to hurt her," he thought; "it's only collision I have to be afraid of now. Well, I can considerably lessen the chances of that."

So he went below, found the side-lamps, lit them, and fastened them to the shrouds.

So dark had become the night that nothing could be distinguished from the yacht's deck, save when, as she rolled from side to side, the port and starboard lights cast an alternate ruddy and sickly green glare on the foaming water. To be out in the North Sea on so small a craft during a gale is terrifying in the extreme to one not inured to the sea; the roaring of the waves and the howling of the wind sound so much louder than on a larger vessel, and the quick, violent motion often confuses the brains even of sailors if they are accustomed only to big ships. But Carew was, as Allen had said, a smart man on a fore-an-after. He felt that, with this good boat under him, he was as safe as if he had been on shore.

"She's snug enough," he said. "I'll go below and try to make out from the chart where I am; then I'll turn in and sleep—if I can."

He looked at the chart, roughly calculated the distance the yacht had run since Allen had taken his "departure" from the Naze, and found that he was about half-way between the English and Dutch coasts. "That is good," he thought; "I have no lee-shore near me; I have plenty of room. I'll just stay where I am, hove-to, till the wind moderates, then make sail for Rotterdam."

He lay down in his bunk and tried to sleep, but all in vain. His brain was too excited with thoughts of what had passed and what was still to happen. Plans to secure his safety, and visions of possible accidents, passed through his mind, weaving themselves in delirious manner into long and complicated histories of his future life—some happy, some terrible with retributive calamity. Unable to stay the feverish activity of his brain, he came on deck at frequent intervals to see that all was well.

The vessel plunged and rolled throughout the night, her timbers groaning, and the wind shrieking through her rigging. But towards daybreak the gale began to moderate, and the glass rose slowly. Carew saw that the bad weather was over and that the heavy sea would soon subside. On the shallow German Ocean the sea rises quicker than elsewhere, and with its steep and breaking rollers is more perilous than can be experienced on any other of our home waters, as the fishermen of the Doggerbank know to their cost. On the other hand, here it soon becomes smooth again as the wind drops.

An hour or so after dawn the sky was almost cloudless, and only a fresh breeze was blowing. The waves, no longer dangerous, broke into white foam that sparkled in the sunshine. It was a day to gladden a sailor's heart.

Carew stood on deck, and under the joyous influences of that bright morning a calm fell on his soul, and his conscience ceased to trouble him. There is a sort of magnetic relation between a man and his surroundings. Out at sea, far away from land, with nothing but pure air and pure water near, even a great villain is wont to forget that he himself is not pure as well. In London, as he walked through the crowded streets, Carew knew that he was constantly jostling against men as bad as himself. In them he saw his own vices and crimes reflected as in a mirror, so that he could never put his guilt out of his mind. Again, fearful as he had been lately that those around him suspected him, he was unable to feel, even for one delusive moment, the sense of innocence.

But out here on the great sea, so far removed from human passion, with nothing to remind him of his offences, it was, on the contrary, difficult for him to realise what manner of man he was. He was conscious of what he imagined were virtuous impulses. He began to flatter himself that he was naturally a good man, that he was more sinned against than sinning, and that it was foolish of him to allow a sensitive conscience to torment him about occurrences, regrettable indeed, but the blame of which was scarcely his. The fact was that he mistook the joyous feelings inspired by a sunny day at sea for the reawakening of his better self—a frequent mistake that. His soul was in complete harmony with the Nature around him; and Nature, whatever her actions, knows nothing of crime or remorse.

So Henry Carew, in no unhappy frame of mind, began to consider what he should do next; and as he pondered, all his pluck and energy returned to him.

"In an hour or so," he said to himself, "the sea will have gone down still more; then I can get the vessel under way again. In the meantime, I will make a thorough inspection, and discover what my resources are; for I must have money, or the means of raising it."

He went below, and after lighting a fire in the stove to boil some water for coffee, he looked round the walls of the cabin. Among other valuables were a rifle, a revolver, a clock, and an aneroid; and Allen's gold watch and chain were hanging on a nail. "I can raise fifty pounds on these to begin with," he thought; "and now to see what there is in the lockers and cupboards." He rummaged everywhere; but, with the exception of the sextant, there was no article of any value that could be easily sold.

At last, in a small drawer, he found the barrister's money and papers. There were about twenty-five pounds in gold. There was also a cheque-book; and on turning over its pages, Carew found that Allen had made a note of the balance to his credit on the counterfoil of the last cheque he had drawn, showing that he had the sum of fifty pounds at his bank. Then the solicitor glanced at the yacht's Admiralty warrant, which authorised Arthur Allen to fly the blue ensign of Her Majesty's fleet on his yacht, the Petrel, of sixteen tons register; a most valuable privilege, as Carew knew, which would serve him as passport into whatever foreign port he should go.

He was not altogether satisfied with the result of his search, and, as he sat on the bunk sipping his coffee, the more he thought of his prospects the more gloomy they appeared to him. He felt that it would be very hazardous to attempt selling the yacht in Rotterdam. To do so would require time; and as it was the long vacation, and so many lawyers and others who knew him were taking their holidays, his recognition by someone in so favourite a haunt of tourists as the Dutch city would be a highly probable event. He dared not risk that. He must not stay in Holland a moment longer than was necessary. Then what could he do with so small a fund at his disposal?

His eye fell on the open drawer, and he rose to close it. He happened then to notice the barrister's diary among the papers, and though he did not imagine that there could be anything in it of the slightest interest to himself, he took it up in a casual way and opened it at the first page. Suddenly the indifferent look vanished, he started visibly, and read with intense eagerness. "Oh!" he cried, "now it is all plain sailing for me. I know what to do." A triumphant light came into his eyes, and then, putting away the diary, he ran on deck, let the foresheet draw, and as he steered the vessel on her course over the dancing waves, the expression of his face indicated a happy confidence in the future; all doubt and fear had fled.

The first page of the diary was devoted to memoranda; and, among other things, the barrister had here written a list of the investments from which he derived his income. The bulk of these consisted of foreign bonds and other easily negotiable securities, which Allen had deposited with his banker.

It was the perusal of this list that had suggested to the quick and ingenious mind of the solicitor a scheme not difficult of execution, the very thought of which made his heart beat quick with anticipation. Carew shrank from the peril of forging cheques or letters of instructions to Allen's bankers; but now that he knew exactly how the barrister's account stood, a simpler and safer method of appropriating to himself a large proportion at least of the dead man's fortune occurred to him.

Said this accomplished scoundrel to himself: "I have here a stout, seaworthy boat, that can easily take me across the Atlantic. I will ship a crew in Rotterdam, and sail for Buenos Ayres. By selling the watch and chain and one or two other little things I shall have enough money to buy stores and pay all other expenses of the voyage. Once in Buenos Ayres, I will go to the agent of the —— Bank. There is sure to be one. I will show him my papers. I will prove to his satisfaction that I am Arthur Allen, barrister-at-law, owner of the yacht Petrel. I will explain that I have run short of money, and require a considerable sum at once. The agent will telegraph to the bank, learn that I have there securities to a large amount, and then he will be ready to advance to me as much as I want; and I will want a good deal. I will say that I am about to buy land, or tell some such plausible tale, get my money, and away. Oh, most excellent plan! Who on earth is likely to suspect that the yachting barrister is no other than Henry Carew, the defaulting solicitor?"

He steered the vessel towards the Dutch coast, and soon the wind fell so much that he was able to shake out all his reefs.

At ten he passed through a large fleet of fishing boats that were riding to their nets. He hailed an English smack, asking her skipper if he could tell him his position.

"You'll get hold of the land in an hour or so," shouted the man; "and, as you are going now, you'll about fetch Goeree."

Carew, after consulting the chart, steered in a more northerly direction. At midday he saw the loom of the land ahead of him; so, as the sky was clear, he brought up the sextant and took an observation of the sun, thus ascertaining his exact position.

"Lucky it is that I taught myself navigation," he thought; "it will come in useful now."

At last he could plainly distinguish the features of the coast, which was low and flat, with white sand-hills here and there that gleamed like snow in the sunshine.

Then he saw a steeple, a lighthouse, and a group of cottages, with bright red roofs, and he knew that he was off the village of Scheveningen, which is a few miles to the north of the Maas. Sailing to the southward, he soon reached the mouth of the river, and at once some of the ever-watchful pilots pulled off to him in a small boat.

Carew hove the yacht to, and waited for them. The boat was soon alongside. Four little old men, all fat and rosy, were in her. One who understood English well was the spokesman. Standing up in the stern he shouted—

"Captain, you want pilot, sar?"

"Yes; how much do you want to take me to Rotterdam?"

Carew felt how necessary it was to husband his funds, and he suspected that Dutch pilots consider a yacht fair prey for extortion.

The man named an exorbitant sum.

"Nonsense! Too much. I'll sail her in myself."

"Right, captain," replied the Dutchman calmly; "that better for me and my mates. You try and go in alone, you sure to run ashore. Then we help you off, and you give us plenty money for salvage instead of small pilot-fee."

Carew felt that it might happen as the old man had said. The Maas is encumbered with shoals, and the navigation is difficult for a stranger.

"Now, how much you give me, captain?"

The solicitor mentioned a moderate sum.

"Ah, you rich man with yacht to be hard on poor pilot! Now, I pilot you for the middle price."

"Come on board, then," said Carew.

The pilot leapt on to the yacht's deck, and the other three pulled away in their boat.

"Now, captain. Tide in river running strong, wind is light; so we want all sail, or else we no move. Call up your hands and hoist topsail."

"There are no hands below. I am alone," replied Carew.

"Alone? What do you mean? You come from England all alone?" exclaimed the man in great astonishment.

"Yes; my crew got drunk and were insolent just before I sailed. They thought I could not do without them, and they knew I was in a hurry. But I put them all on shore without hesitation, and I have come across alone."

"You a very mad Englishman, but you a brave man. I never hear anything like that."

"Pilot," said Carew, later on, as they were sailing up the river, "I don't want to be followed about Rotterdam as if I were a curiosity; so I should like you not to mention the fact of my having sailed across the sea alone."

"All right, captain; my mouth close."

"I shall want a crew of two or three good, honest Dutchmen, pilot. Can you recommend me any men?"

"This very night you shall have one—my cousin Willem—a very good boy, captain."

"And there is another thing, pilot. What sort of a berth are you going to put me in in Rotterdam?"

"I will moor you along the Boompjees; nice quays them. Plenty good Schiedam shops on shore there. All yachts go there."

"I thought so; that's why I asked. Now, pilot, I do not want to be moored along the Boompjees. Take me to some quiet canal, out of the way; you understand—a place where no yachts or foreign vessels go."

"Ah, I know, captain, just the place: nothing but Holland schuyts there; no yachts like it, no captains like it; I not think you will like it."

"I will go there. But why don't you think I shall like it?"

"You no have Dutch nose; and that canal plenty smellful, captain."