'I am Tom Llanyard, at your service—his lordship's skipper, but in Her Majesty's service, like yourself, once. Lives were lost—some of the Ostend lubbers, who failed to hang out a light.'
'Any of the yacht?'
'Only Daisy Prune, Miss Cheyne's maid. Poor little girl, I did my best to save her, but a wave took her out of my grasp.'
Human grief is perhaps rather selfish; thus it was rather a relief to Goring when he heard that the poor human life lost was that of 'only Daisy Prune.'
'Miss Cheyne?'
'Is well, or was well when she left the yacht three weeks ago, but Sir Ranald was seriously injured by a swinging block. Step below, Captain Goring, and have a glass of wine. You look fagged.'
'Thanks,' replied Goring, who was giddy again with the mere revulsion of feeling, and felt an emotion of great thankfulness that he had so suddenly, so unexpectedly lighted upon the direct track of those he was in search of. Hitherto he had only looked forward to tidings—if any—of death, not life, and it might be of unhappiness.
He stepped into the handsome little saloon of the yacht, which had all the luxury and elegance of a sea-going boudoir.
'Pemmican,' cried Llanyard to the steward, 'glasses, some dry sherry, and a biscuit; too early for grog, I suppose, sir, as the sun is not over the foreyard. That was Miss Cheyne's cabin,' he added, indicating a little state-room, the occupation of which by her gave it an interest in his eyes and still more in the eyes of his listener; 'yes, sir, her cabin, and may be again, if she sails with us.'
'Ah!' replied Goring, thinking it might be unwise to exhibit too much interest; 'where is Lord Cadbury just now?'