“Yes,” she said, nodding with grave eyes, “there is a man.”
“Oh, there is,” said the other, bending forward with a sudden eager interest that was not lost upon Mrs. Willers. “Who?”
“One of our men here, Barry Essex.”
“Essex!” exclaimed the widow, with a sudden light of relieved comprehension suffusing her glance. “Of course. I know him. That dark, foreign-looking man that nobody knows anything about. Mr. Shackleton thought a great deal of him; said he was thrown away on The Trumpet. He’s not a bit an ordinary sort of person.”
“That’s the one,” said Mrs. Willers, nodding her head in somber acquiescence. “And you’re right about nobody knowing anything about him. He’s a dark mystery, I think.”
“And you say he’s in love with her?”
“That’s what I’d infer from what she tells me.”
“What does she tell you?”
“He’s asked her to marry him.”
“Then they’re engaged. That accounts for the whole thing.”