It
was a mere muddle of fancies at best, and yet they took a hold of my
imagination. I think it was about a week before this murder that I had
observed the coolness of what you might call a lovers' quarrel betwixt
the captain and his young lady, and without taking any further notice
of it I quietly set the cause down to Mrs. Burney, who, as a
thorough-paced flirt, with fine languishing black eyes, and a saucy
tongue, had often done her best to engage the skipper in one of those
little asides which are as brimstone and the undying worm to the jealous
of either sex. The lovers had made it up soon after, and for two or
three days previously had been as thick and lover-like as sweet-hearts
ought to be.
But what had the ghost that had affrighted the Dane to do with this
murder? And how were Mrs. Burney's blandishments, and the short-lived
quarrel betwixt the lovers to be associated with it? Nevertheless,
these matters ran in my head as I walked the deck on the morning of
that crime, and I thought and thought, scarce knowing, however, in
what direction imagination was heading.
The two mates, the seamen, and the passengers arrived with their
reports. They had nothing to tell.
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