“The Croonah!” they said, “the Croonah!” as if a pillar of their faith had fallen. For once no one had a theory: no carpet mariner could explain this thing.
Against the jamb of the window, behind them all, Willie Carr stood leaning.
“Done anything on her?” some one asked him.
“Yes, bad luck,” he answered. “Had friends on her, too.”
It was a long and expansive telegram, giving the list of the lost, twenty-nine in all, and among the names were mentioned Mrs. Ingham-Baker and her daughter.
“Ship in charge of second officer,” said the telegram. And lower down, at the foot of the fatal list: “Second officer picked up unconscious. Doing well.”
Suddenly Willie Carr moved, and, turning his back somewhat hastily, looked out of the window.
Fitz had just come into the dreary, fateful little room, conducted thither by the Admiralty agent. He read the telegram carefully from beginning to end.
“Luke on the Burlings!” he muttered, as he turned to go. “Luke! I can’t understand it. He must have been mad!”
And after all Fitz only spoke the truth; but it was a madness to which we are all subject.