Mr. Powell stared for a moment.

"Oh! The Ferndale. A Liverpool ship. Composite built."

"Ferndale," repeated Marlow thoughtfully. "Ferndale."

"Know her?"

"Our friend," I said, "knows something of every ship. He seems to have gone about the seas prying into things considerably."

Marlow smiled.

"I've seen her, at least once."

"The finest sea–boat ever launched," declared Mr. Powell sturdily. "Without exception."

"She looked a stout, comfortable ship," assented Marlow. "Uncommonly comfortable. Not very fast tho'."

"She was fast enough for any reasonable man—when I was in her," growled Mr. Powell with his back to us.

"Any ship is that—for a reasonable man," generalized Marlow in a conciliatory tone. "A sailor isn't a globe–trotter."

"No," muttered Mr. Powell.

"Time's nothing to him," advanced Marlow.

"I don't suppose it's much," said Mr. Powell. "All the same a quick passage is a feather in a man's cap."

"True. But that ornament is for the use of the master only. And by the by what was his name?"

"The master of the Ferndale? Anthony. Captain Anthony."

"Just so. Quite right," approved Marlow thoughtfully. Our new acquaintance looked over his shoulder.

"What do you mean? Why is it more right than if it had been Brown?"

"He has known him probably," I explained. "Marlow here appears to know something of every soul that ever went afloat in a sailor's body."

Mr. Powell seemed wonderfully amenable to verbal suggestions for looking again out of the window, he muttered:

"He was a good soul."

This clearly referred to Captain Anthony of the Ferndale. Marlow addressed his protest to me.

"I did not know him. I really didn't. He was a good soul. That's nothing very much out of the way—is it? And I didn't even know that much of him. All I knew of him was an accident called Fyne."

At this Mr. Powell who evidently could be rebellious too turned his back squarely on the window.

"What on earth do you mean?" he asked. "An—accident—called Fyne," he repeated separating the words with emphasis.

Marlow was not disconcerted.

"I don't mean accident in the sense of a mishap. Not in the least. Fyne was a good little man in the Civil Service. By accident I mean that which happens blindly and without intelligent design. That's generally the way a brother–in–law happens into a man's life."

Marlow's tone being apologetic and our new acquaintance having again turned to the window I took it upon myself to say:

"You are justified. There is very little intelligent design in the majority of marriages; but they are none the worse for that. Intelligence leads people astray as far as passion sometimes. I know you are not a cynic."

Marlow smiled his retrospective smile which was kind as though he bore no grudge against people he used to know.

"Little Fyne's marriage was quite successful. There was no design at all in it.