“The Clara McClay?” he babbled. “The—” he was going to say the “gold-ship.”
“What do you know about her? Where did you hear of her?”
“I was on her. I was wrecked with her.”
“The devil you were!”
“Yes, wrecked, and saved only by the Lord’s wonderful mercy. I floated about for days in an open boat.”
“Look here,” said Elliott. “I rather fancy that you’re running more risk now than you were in that open boat. You don’t know what deep waters you’re sailing. Sevier’s a dangerous man. If you want me to help you, you’ll have to tell me the whole story.”
The missionary acquiesced with the alacrity which he always showed in casting his mundane responsibilities upon stronger shoulders.
“I am ashamed to tell you the story,” he said. “And yet it was not my fault. At least, I had no intention of doing any wrong whatever. I was in the work at Durban under the British Mission Board. I had been there for two years, and I may say that my efforts had been abundantly blessed,” he added, with humble pride.
“But I was tempted, and I was weak. I had a large sum of money in my hands—nearly five hundred dollars—which the Board had supplied for the building of a new chapel. I did not covet it for myself, but my salary was long overdue, and it was past my time to send a remittance to my daughter. The fund would not be needed for months, and I would have paid back every cent of it.”
“So you took it,” Elliott interrupted.