LATE in the afternoon, John Fox knocked at the door of Benjamin Howard, in the town of Ferguson. It was a hundred miles distant from Colebrook, his own residence, and he grudged the three dollars he had spent for railroad fare; still he thought that the stake was worth playing for.
“I am John Fox of Colebrook,” he said, when Mr. Howard entered the room. “You may have heard of me.”
“I have,” answered Mr. Howard, slightly smiling.
“I am the only living relative of Harry Vane, that is, I and my family.”
“I have heard Harry speak of you,” said Mr. Howard, non-committally.
“Yes, poor boy! I wish he were alive;” and Mr. Fox drew out a red bandanna handkerchief and covered his eyes, in which there were no tears.
“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Howard, startled.
“Then you haven’t heard?”
“Heard—what?”
“That he sailed in the ship Nantucket, which was lost, with all on board, in the Southern Ocean?”