“Lord Fairholme?” broke in Evelyn.
“No, miss, that wasn’t it—not in the same street.”
“Billy Thring?”
“Tally! I’ve got it all logged up in my cabin. I wasn’t sartin I’d see you to–night, or I’d ha’ brought the book. That’s ‘im—Billy Thring—it sounds familiar like, if he’s a swell, but that’s wot they called ‘im at Lochmerig.”
“Peter, you are a wonder. You have found out the one thing I wanted to know.”
“Excuse me, miss, but you’re a bit of a wonder yourself. If that was the on’y missin’ link, w’y didn’t you write to me, care o’ the Pilots’ Office, Cardiff? I could ha’ put you straight within a week. Any ship’s skipper would ha’ guessed my address, if you tole ‘im about the Nancy an’ gev ‘im my name.”
“I fear I am very much to blame,” said Evelyn contritely. “But you hardly realize yet how I have been victimized. Now I must go. It is very late. Where are you staying?”
“Chris an’ me will turn in with our engineer friend on board the Cid. At least that’s wot I call the old tub, but these Spanish jokers make it into Thith. Did y’ ever ‘ear anythink funnier’n that?”
She laughed blithely, arranged an early hour to meet the two at the mole next day, and sped back to the hotel. She wanted to read that thrice–precious letter again. Seen in the moonlight, it seemed to be fantastic, unreal. The words danced before her eyes. Her brain had only half grasped its extraordinary meanings.