“This lady is Mrs. Travers,” said Lingard. “The wife of one of the luckless gentlemen Daman got hold of last evening. . . . This is Jorgenson, the friend of whom I have been telling you, Mrs. Travers.”
Mrs. Travers smiled faintly. Her eyes roamed far and near and the strangeness of her surroundings, the overpowering curiosity, the conflict of interest and doubt gave her the aspect of one still new to life, presenting an innocent and naive attitude before the surprises of experience. She looked very guileless and youthful between those two men. Lingard gazed at her with that unconscious tenderness mingled with wonder, which some men manifest toward girlhood. There was nothing of a conqueror of kingdoms in his bearing. Jorgenson preserved his amazing abstraction which seemed neither to hear nor see anything. But, evidently, he kept a mysterious grip on events in the world of living men because he asked very naturally:
“How did she get away?”
“The lady wasn't on the sandbank,” explained Lingard, curtly.
“What sandbank?” muttered Jorgenson, perfunctorily. . . . “Is the yacht looted, Tom?”
“Nothing of the kind,” said Lingard.
“Ah, many dead?” inquired Jorgenson.
“I tell you there was nothing of the kind,” said Lingard, impatiently.
“What? No fight!” inquired Jorgenson again without the slightest sign of animation.
“No.”