"It's a serious matter, Billy, so I want the truth for what I'm going to ask you. Give it to me straight from the shoulder and don't mince matters. Promise?"
"I must confess, Cal, I don't see what you're driving at, but I suppose it's all right. Yes, I promise. Now, fire away. Wait a minute. Perhaps I'd better lead off with how I got there. You've been pretty loose up here, you know," he touched his forehead by way of illustration. "Perhaps I may save you the worry of framing up questions—my account may cover everything."
"Did I talk much—rot?" asked Carter.
"Yes, rather. Calling all the time for Trusia—said Carrick was a King—and lots more of the same kind. Who was Trusia?"
"The Duchess of Schallberg." Carter's reply was unnaturally grave and his face solemn and tense. "Tell me, Billy," he requested quietly, "when I sank—was there any one with me?"
"It might have been a bundle of rags—it might have been a man or a woman, I rather thought it was a woman. What did you do, Cal, run off with some Cossack's wife?"
"It was Her Grace."
"The deuce it was!" exclaimed Saunderson.
Carter bent forward until their faces were close. "Oh, Billy," he begged piteously, "don't tell me you let her drown! Don't tell me she is dead! Don't——"
"I didn't. She isn't," said Saunderson with more care for denial than lucidity. He laid a restraining, friendly hand on Carter's shoulder.