Although the _Aphrodite_ lay inside the mole, her bridge and
promenade deck were high enough to permit him to see the rocky islet
crowned by the Chateau d'If. He knew that the hero of Dumas'
masterpiece had burrowed a tunnel out of that grim prison, to swim
ashore an outcast, a man with a price on his head, yet bearing with him
the precious paper whose secret should make him the fabulously rich
Count of Monte Christo. It was only a soul-stirring romance, a dim
legend transformed into vivid life by the genius of the inspired
quadroon. But its extraordinary appositeness to the _Aphrodite's_ quest
suddenly occurred to the young Englishman watching the sunlit isle. He
was startled at the thought, especially when he contrasted his present
condition with his depressed awakening in Brixton five days earlier.
Then he laughed, and a sailor, busily engaged in polishing the glass
front of the wheel-house, followed the direction of his gaze and half
interpreted his daydream.
"It's a bit of a change from the West India Dock Road, ain't it, sir?"
he asked.
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