"Yes, of course. I caught the word quite accurately. But may I remind you that you addressed her as your daughter in the cabin of the Hirondelle?"
"Does it matter to you, Mr. Raymond, how I addressed her?"
"No, no. I was only anxious to correct my own false impression."
Mrs. Carmac suddenly bethought herself. "My wits are still wool gathering," she cried. "Won't you sit down? I have a good many things to discuss with you. Is your arm very painful? Happily I have never suffered from a broken limb; but it sounds quite dreadful."
Raymond sank into a comfortable chair, steadying himself with his left hand. "It's not so bad now," he said. "By comparison with the torture of Thursday afternoon it is more than bearable. The chief misfortune lies in the fact that my right arm is out of action. I had no idea how little use I made of my left hand until I tried to write with it."
"The doctor seems to be a very clever man; but if you think it advisable to have your injury seen to by an expert——"
"Oh, it's only a simple fracture. I have every reason to believe that it is properly set. Indeed, all it needs now is efficient dressing—and time."
"How did you come to break it?"
"I was flung down the companionway when the yacht turned on her beam ends."
"But the last thing I remember, and very vividly too, is that you and I were holding to a rail and looking out through the forward window of the deck saloon. We felt a curious trembling of the hull, and the vessel swung round from the wind. There was a strange lull, and Captain Popple shouted something. I asked you what it was, and you said that the shaft had broken, and we should be dashed against the rocks in ten minutes or less. Then, I suppose, I fainted."