turns enough on it to secure that it shan’t run out. He makes it too secure, as it happens. He is a little longer about this than usual, his hands being numbed. His object drifts up, before he is quite ready for it. He catches at it, thinks he’ll make sure of the contents of the pockets anyhow, in case he should be parted from it, bends right over the stern, and in one of these heavy squalls, or in the cross-swell of two steamers, or in not being quite prepared, or through all or most or some, gets a lurch, overbalances and goes head-foremost overboard. Now see! He can swim, can this man, and instantly he strikes out. But in such striking-out he tangles his arms, pulls strong on the slipknot, and it runs home. The object he had expected to take in tow, floats by, and his own boat tows him dead, to where we found him, all entangled in his own line. You’ll ask me how I make out about the pockets? First, I’ll tell you more; there was silver in ’em. How do I make that out? Simple and satisfactory. Because he’s got it here.” The lecturer held up the tightly clenched right hand.
“What is to be done with the remains?” asked Lightwood.
“If you wouldn’t object to standing by him half a minute, sir,” was the reply, “I’ll find the nearest of our men to come and take charge of him;—I still call it him , you see,” said Mr. Inspector, looking back as he went, with a philosophical smile upon the force of habit.
“Eugene,” said Lightwood and was about to add “we may wait at a little distance,” when turning his head he found that no Eugene was there.
He raised his voice and called “Eugene! Holloa!” But no Eugene replied.
It was broad daylight now, and he looked about. But no Eugene was in all the view.