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And then again, Mary Phillips may not have understood what I said to her through the speaking-trumpet. A grim humor of despair suggested that at that distance, and in that blustering wind, the faithful maid-servant might have thought that instead of shouting that I loved my Bertha, I was asking her if they had plenty of salt pork and hardtack. It was indeed a time of terrible suspense.

I did not know Bertha’s address in England. I knew that she had friends in London and others in the country; but I was sure that I would find her if she were on the island. I arrived in London very early in the morning, too early to expect to find open any of the banking-houses or other places where Americans would be likely to register. Unable to remain inactive, I took a cab and drove to the London docks.

I went to inquire the whereabouts of Captain Guy Chesters.

This plan of action was almost repulsive to me, but I felt that it offered an opportunity which I should not neglect. I would certainly learn about Bertha if I saw him, and whether it would be anything good or anything bad I ought to know it.

In making my inquiries the cabman was of much assistance to me. And after having been referred from one person to another, I at last found a man, first mate of a vessel in the docks, who knew Captain Chesters, and could tell me all about him.

“Yes, sir,” said he, “I can tell you where to find Captain Chesters. He’s on shore, for he doesn’t command the Glanford now, and as far as I know he hasn’t signed articles yet either as skipper or mate in any other craft. The fact is, he’s engaged in business, which I suppose he thinks better than sailing the sea. He was married about a month ago. It’s only two or three days since he’s got back from a little land trip they took on the Continent. I saw him yesterday; he’s the happiest man alive. But it’s as like as not that he’s ready for business now that he’s got through with his honeymoon, and if it’s a skipper you’re looking for you can’t find a better man than Captain Guy, not about these docks.”

I stood and looked at the man without seeing him, and then in a hollow voice asked: “Where does he live?”

“A hundred and nine Lisbury Street, Calistoy Road, East. Now that I’ve told you, I wish I hadn’t. You look as though you were going to measure him for a coffin.”

“Thank you,” said I, and walked away.

I told the cabman to drive me to the address I had received, and in due time we arrived in front of a very good-looking house, in a quiet and respectable street.

I was in a peculiar state of mind. I had half expected the terrible shock, and I had received it. But I had not been stunned; I had been roused to an unusual condition of mental activity. My senses were sharpened by the torment of my soul, and I observed everything,–the quarter of the city, the street, the house.

The woman who opened the door started a little when she saw me. I asked for Mrs. Captain Chesters, and walked in without waiting to be told whether the lady was in or not. The woman showed me into a little parlor, and left me. Her manner plainly indicated that she suspected something was the matter with me.

In a very short time a tall, well-made man, with curly brown hair, a handsome, sun-browned face, and that fine presence which command at sea frequently gives, entered the room.

“I understand, sir,” said he, “that you asked for my wife, but I thought it better to come to you myself. What is your business with her, sir, and what is your name?”

“My name is Charles Rockwell,” I said, “and my business is to see her. If she has already forgotten my name, you can tell her that I kept company with her for a while on the Atlantic Ocean, when she was in one wreck and I was in another.”