The Return of Tarzan by Edgar Rice Burroughs (read any book txt) 📕

Monsieur Thuran laughed pleasantly. “Mercy, my dear Miss Strong,” he said; “where in the world could he be then? We have not been within sight of land for days.”

“Of course, it is ridiculous of me,” she admitted. And then: “But I am not going to worry about it any longer; I am going to find out where Mr. Caldwell is,” and she motioned to a passing steward.

“That may be more difficult than you imagine, my dear girl,” thought Monsieur Thuran, but aloud he said: “By all means.”

“Find Mr. Caldwell, please,” she said to the steward, “and tell him that his friends are much worried by his continued absence.”

“You are very fond of Mr. Caldwell?” suggested Monsieur Thuran.

“I think he is splendid,” replied the girl. “And mamma is perfectly infatuated with him. He is the sort of man with whom one has a feeling of perfect security⁠—no one could help but have confidence in Mr. Caldwell.”

A moment later the steward returned to say that Mr. Caldwell was not in his stateroom. “I cannot find him, Miss Strong, and”⁠—he hesitated⁠—“I have learned that his berth was not occupied last night. I think that I had better report the matter to the captain.”

“Most assuredly,” exclaimed Miss Strong. “I shall go with you to the captain myself. It is terrible! I know that something awful has happened. My presentiments were not false, after all.”

It was a very frightened young woman and an excited steward who presented themselves before the captain a few moments later. He listened to their stories in silence⁠—a look of concern marking his expression as the steward assured him that he had sought for the missing passenger in every part of the ship that a passenger might be expected to frequent.

“And are you sure, Miss Strong, that you saw a body fall overboard last night?” he asked.

“There is not the slightest doubt about that,” she answered. “I cannot say that it was a human body⁠—there was no outcry. It might have been only what I thought it was⁠—a bundle of refuse. But if Mr. Caldwell is not found on board I shall always be positive that it was he whom I saw fall past my port.”

The captain ordered an immediate and thorough search of the entire ship from stem to stern⁠—no nook or cranny was to be overlooked. Miss Strong remained in his cabin, waiting the outcome of the quest. The captain asked her many questions, but she could tell him nothing about the missing man other than what she had herself seen during their brief acquaintance on shipboard. For the first time she suddenly realized how very little indeed Mr. Caldwell had told her about himself or his past life. That he had been born in Africa and educated in Paris was about all she knew, and this meager information had been the result of her surprise that an Englishman should speak English with such a marked French accent.

“Did he ever speak of any enemies?” asked the captain.

“Never.”

“Was he acquainted with any of the other passengers?”

“Only as he had been with me⁠—through the circumstance of casual meeting as fellow shipmates.”

“Er⁠—was he, in your opinion, Miss Strong, a man who drank to excess?”

“I do not know that he drank at all⁠—he certainly had not been drinking up to half an hour before I saw that body fall overboard,” she answered, “for I was with him on deck up to that time.”

“It is very strange,” said the captain. “He did not look to me like a man who was subject to fainting spells, or anything of that sort. And even had he been it is scarcely credible that he should have fallen completely over the rail had he been taken with an attack while leaning upon it⁠—he would rather have fallen inside, upon the deck. If he is not on board, Miss Strong, he was thrown overboard⁠—and the fact that you heard no outcry would lead to the assumption that he was dead before he left the ship’s deck⁠—murdered.”

The girl shuddered.

It was a full hour later that the first officer returned to report the outcome of the search.

“Mr. Caldwell is not on board, sir,” he said.

“I fear that there is something more serious than accident here, Mr. Brently,” said the captain. “I wish that you would make a personal and very careful examination of Mr. Caldwell’s effects, to ascertain if there is any clue to a motive either for suicide or murder⁠—sift the thing to the bottom.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” responded Mr. Brently, and left to commence his investigation.

Hazel Strong was prostrated. For two days she did not leave her cabin, and when she finally ventured on deck she was very wan and white, with great, dark circles beneath her eyes. Waking or sleeping, it seemed that she constantly saw that dark body dropping, swift and silent, into the cold, grim sea.

Shortly after her first appearance on deck following the tragedy, Monsieur Thuran joined her with many expressions of kindly solicitude.

“Oh, but it is terrible, Miss Strong,” he said. “I cannot rid my mind of it.”

“Nor I,” said the girl wearily. “I feel that he might have been saved had I but given the alarm.”

“You must not reproach yourself, my dear Miss Strong,” urged Monsieur Thuran. “It was in no way your fault. Another would have done as you did. Who would think that because something fell into the sea from a ship that it must necessarily be a man? Nor would the outcome have been different had you given an alarm. For a while they would have doubted your story, thinking it but the nervous hallucination of a woman⁠—had you insisted it would have been too late to have rescued him by the time the ship could have been brought to a stop, and the boats lowered and rowed back miles in search of the unknown spot where the tragedy had occurred. No, you must not censure yourself. You have done more than any other of us for poor Mr. Caldwell⁠—you were the only one to miss him. It was