By the way, he calls himself 'Charles Boyd,' so I suppose we needn't recall to him his former experiences by adding the 'Madras.'" Hungerford squeezed my arm again violently, and added: "Look here, Marmion, we understand each other in this, don't we?
To do what we can for the fellow, and be mum." Some of this looks rough and blunt, but as it was spoken there was that in it which softened it to my ear.

I knew he had told all he thought I ought to know, and that he wished me to question him no more, nor to refer to Mrs.Falchion, whose relationship to Boyd Madras--or Charles Boyd--both of us suspected.
"It was funny about those verses coming to my mind, wasn't it, Marmion ?" he continued.

And he began to repeat one of them, keeping time to the wave-like metre with his cheroot, winding up with a quick, circular movement, and putting it again between his lips: "'There's never a ripple upon the tide, There's never a breath or sound; But over the waste the white wraiths glide, To look for the souls of the drowned."' Then he jumped off the berth where he had been sitting, put on his jacket, said it was time to take his turn on the bridge, and prepared to go out, having apparently dismissed Number 116 Intermediate from his mind.
I went to Charles Boyd's cabin, and knocked gently.

There was no response.

I entered.