“Who can tell? It may be sickness.”
He stood thoughtfully by the big fire and moved not. Peter went on with his figures in a fidgety way. Presently Tulloch entered. The banker’s visits were rare ones, and Peter was already suspicious of them. But he laid down his pen, and with scrupulous civility said, “Good morning to thee, Tulloch—Deacon Tulloch, I should say. Wilt thou buy or sell aught this morning?”
“Good morning, Fae. I came to thee for news. Where is thy son Jan staying?”
Peter’s face darkened. “I know nothing at all about Jan Vedder. If he is at sea, he is out of thy world; if he is in harbor, he will be at Ragon Torr’s, or on board The Solan.”
“The Solan hath gone to pieces on the Quarr Rocks.”
Just for a moment a thrill of sinful triumph made Peter’s brown face turn scarlet, but he checked it instantly. “I heard not that,” he said gravely.
“Only Jan escaped—ship and crew went to the bottom.”
Peter shut his mouth tight, he was afraid to trust himself to speak.
“But Jan did his very best, no man could have done more. I saw him last night. He is ill and broken down by his trouble. Put out thy hand to him. Thou do that, and it will be a good thing, Fae.”