Undoubtedly David was recovering. The discomfited clerks retired. Even Dickey Bulmer was quieted a little. But he still shook the newspaper under David's nose.
"Now!" he cried. "Let's have it. No more of your flamin' made-up tales. Wot took you to shove the Andromeda into a rat-trap of this sort?"
David staggered away from the table. He seemed to be laboring for breath.
"'Arf a mo'. No need to yowl at me like that," he protested.
He fumbled with the lock of a corner cupboard, opened it, and drew forth a decanter and some glasses. A tumbler crashed to the floor, and the slight accident was another factor in clearing his wits. He swore volubly.
"Same thing 'appened that Sunday afternoon," he said, apparently obvious of the other men's presence. "My poor lass upset one, she did. Wish she'd ha' flung it at my 'ed.… Did it say 'went down with all 'ands,' mister?" he demanded suddenly of the reporter.
"Yes, Mr. Verity."
"Is it true?"
"I trust not, but Lloyd's agent—well, I needn't tell you that Lloyd's is reliable. Was your niece on board? Is she the lady mentioned in the cablegram?"
Then Bulmer woke up to the fact that there was a stranger present.