“Two boats reached the schooners. There was a nasty sea running then, and it blew viciously hard next day. There were three men in the other.”
“Ah!” cried Agatha, “they were drowned?”
Wyllard made a forceful gesture. “I’m not quite sure. That’s the trouble. At least, the boat was nowhere on the beach next day, and it’s difficult to see how the men could have faced the sea that piled up when the gale came down. In all probability, they had an oar short, and the boat rolled them out when a comber broke upon her in the darkness.” The girl saw him close one hand tight as he added, “If one only knew!”
“What would have befallen them if they had reached shore?”
“It’s difficult to say. They could have been handed over to the Russian authorities. Still, sealers poaching up there have simply disappeared.”
He stopped again, and glanced out at the gathering darkness. “Now,” he concluded, “you see why I hate the fog.”
“But you couldn’t help it,” said Agatha.
“Well,” answered Wyllard, “I asked for volunteers, and the money that is now mine came out of those schooners. It’s just possible those men are living still—somewhere in Northern Asia. I only know that they disappeared.”
He abruptly began to talk of something else, and by and by Agatha went down to the saloon, where Miss Rawlinson, who had not been much in evidence during the voyage, presently made her appearance.
“Aren’t you going into the music-room to play for Mr. Wyllard—as usual?” she inquired.