She clasped her hands together tightly, and tried to speak calmly. "My story is a very strange one indeed. I was landed here by an American whaleship five months ago. She brought me from Ocean Island. I came here in the hope that my husband—if he is alive—would come here. But I fear he is dead—murdered;" and the tears began to steal down her cheeks.
"Murdered! Is he a trader in this group?"
"No; he was captain and owner of a trading vessel, a small brig. I was with him. One night, when I was on deck, I overheard two of the officers and a man who was a passenger plotting to seize the ship and get rid of us both. They discovered me, and one of them threw me overboard to drown."
"Good Heavens! What was the ship's name?"
"The Mahina."
Barry's heart thumped so violently that for a moment or two he could not speak; then he said hoarsely—
"My God! Who are you? What was your husband's name?"
"John Tracey! And you, who are you? Why do you look like that? Ah, you know something. Quick, tell me. Is he dead?"
There was a pause before Barry could bring himself to reply. The woman, with pale face and quivering lips, waited for his answer.
"Yes. He is dead."