“So—the wedding-ring.” It was as though the missionary spoke to himself; then he asked: “Have you the ring?”
“Aye,” answered Black Pawl.
The man of the church considered a moment.
“You gave her other—jewels, I have no doubt,” he suggested. “Did this man have them as well?”
Black Pawl shook his head. “She was not one for such baubles. There was only a little locket. When I left her, at the last, with our son, we made a daguerreotype of him, that she might wear it in this locket about her throat. It was not worth the stealing, or it was lost before the end. At least, this man had it not.”
“You asked him for it?”
“No. When he showed me the wedding-ring, he was in five seconds of death.”
“What was that locket like?” the missionary pursued.
But Black Pawl could endure no more. “Man,” he cried, “have done!” His voice broke with a laugh. “This digging in dead years is fool’s work, Father,” he said. “Have done with it, for good and all.”
For a space of minutes the missionary stood musing, while Black Pawl paced the deck behind him, now and again roaring orders to laggers amidships. In the end he paused, then drew near the missionary again.