And again Powell seemed to lose himself in the past. I asked, for suddenly the vision of the Fynes passed through my mind.
“Any children?”
Powell gave a start. “No! No! Never had any children,” and again subsided, puffing at his short briar pipe.
“Where are they now?” I inquired next as if anxious to ascertain that all Fyne’s fears had been misplaced and vain as our fears often are; that there were no undesirable cousins for his dear girls, no danger of intrusion on their spotless home. Powell looked round at me slowly, his pipe smouldering in his hand.
“Don’t you know?” he uttered in a deep voice.
“Know what?”
“That the Ferndale was lost this four years or more. Sunk. Collision. And Captain Anthony went down with her.”
“You don’t say so!” I cried quite affected as if I had known Captain Anthony personally. “Was—was Mrs. Anthony lost too?”
“You might as well ask if I was lost,” Mr. Powell rejoined so testily as to surprise me. “You see me here,—don’t you.”
He was quite huffy, but noticing my wondering stare he smoothed his ruffled plumes. And in a musing tone.