"The scene vanishes," resumed the monotonous voice, "and another one
forms. The same man stands on the deck of a small ship. The name on
the stern is the Peer--no, Paris--no, no, no, Pearl. It fades from the
shore where the dusky maiden stands with hands stretched out
imploringly. The ill-shaped man smiles and takes the portrait of the
young and beautiful girl from his pocket."
"Look 'ere," said the infuriated Mr. Boxer, "I think we've 'ad about
enough of this rubbish. I have--more than enough."
"I don't wonder at it," said his wife, trembling furiously. "You can go
if you like. I'm going to stay and hear all that there is to hear."
"You sit quiet," urged the intensely interested Mr. Thompson. "He ain't
said it's you. There's more than one misshaped man in the world, I
s'pose?"
"I see an ocean liner," said the seer, who had appeared to be in a trance
state during this colloquy. "She is sailing for England from Australia.
I see the name distinctly: the _Marston Towers_. The same man is on
board of her. The ship arrives at London. The scene closes; another one
forms.
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