citadel he quitted was Paradise on the edge of an inferno.

Down in the saloon the hardier passengers were striving to subdue the
ennui of an interval before they sought their cabins. Some talked. One
hardened reprobate strummed the piano. Others played cards, chess,
draughts, anything that would distract attention.

The stately apartment offered strange contrast to the warring elements
without. Bright lights, costly upholstery, soft carpets, carved panels
and gilded cornices, with uniformed attendants passing to and fro
carrying coffee and glasses--these surroundings suggested a floating
palace in which the raging seas were defied. Yet forty miles away,
somewhere in the furious depths, four corpses swirled about with
horrible uncertainty, lurching through battling currents, and perchance
convoyed by fighting sharks.

The surgeon had been called away. Iris was the only lady left in the
saloon. She watched a set of whist players for a time and then essayed
the perilous passage to her stateroom. She found her maid and a
stewardess there. Both women were weeping.

"What is the matter?" she inquired.

The stewardess tried to speak. She choked with grief and hastily went
out. The maid blubbered an explanation.

"A friend of hers was married, miss, to the man who is drowned."

"Drowned! What man?"