His valise alone was found.
Several people remembered the haggard man who had tramped the deck so restlessly. He seemed to be in great mental distress, anxious only to keep away from all companionship, and no one could recall having seen him after the cry of “Man overboard!” Even the captain had finally to admit that it was probable he had lost a passenger, although, of course, no blame whatever attached to him or to any of the boat’s crew.
Then came the letter that had been forwarded from the hotel. It was pathetically brief and to the point, as follows:
“My Dear Sons: The insurance money will pull you through. It is all that I can give you. Your success is dearer to me than anything else in the world. Your affectionate father,
Jonas Kalin.
Of course, Dave Murray read the story in the papers—all but the letter. That was brought to him later by Albert Kalin.
“We wish to give you all the facts, without reservation,” Albert explained. “Father did this for us to save the firm, to save an almost priceless invention.” The young man choked a little. “We have hoped against hope that his letter might prove to be capable of some other interpretation, or that he may have changed his mind after writing it, and we have left no stone unturned—”
“Neither have we,” said Murray quietly. “Perhaps we know more than you.”
“Have you got trace of him?” asked Albert quickly, and his face showed a dawn of hope that could not be misunderstood: he actually believed his father dead and would welcome any evidence to the contrary. It was not the expression of a man who was principally interested in the payment of the insurance money, although he was naturally presenting his and his brother’s claim.
“I am sorry to say we have not,” replied Murray, “but neither have we any proof of death.”