At the name Gaston de Paris Raft nodded his head. Already a suspicion that she might be one of the yacht’s crowd had come into his mind, so the news came scarcely as a surprise.
“It was us you hit,” said he, “I’m one of the chaps from the old hooker.”
“The Albatross?”
“That’s her.”
She said nothing for a moment, looking away over at the islands. She could see the name, still, written as if on the night. Then she remembered the boat sail she had seen when adrift with Bompard and La Touche.
“There were four of us got off,” said he, “we struck them islands over there and put in but there was nothing but rocks in that part. Next day we put out, but got blown down the coast; we got smashed landing; all but a chap named Ponting and me went under, but one chap’s body was hove up and we stripped him. I’ve got his boots and his knife in that bundle over there in the cave, and Ponting’s. We saved a bag of bread.”
He took his seat again on the rock and, placing the cup beside him, took the pipe from his pocket, but he did not light it. He held it, rubbing the bowl reflectively. He seemed to have come to an end of his story.
“Did the other man die?” she asked.
“He went getting gulls’ eggs one day,” said Raft, “and slipped over the cliff. They’re big, the cliffs, down there. I found him all broke up on the rocks. He didn’t live more than a minute when I got to him and I had to leave him; the tide was coming up.”
“Poor man,” said she.