Bulmer went to the window and looked out. A drizzle of sleet was falling from a gray sky. The atmosphere was heavy. It was a day singularly appropriate to the evil tidings that had shocked him into a fury against the man who had so willfully deceived him. David picked up the proof slips and reread them. He compared them with the paragraphs in the newspaper brought by Bulmer, and thrown by him on the table after his first outburst of helpless wrath. They were identical in wording, of course, but, somehow, their meaning was clearer in the printed page: and David, despite his uncouth diction, was a clever man.
He wrinkled his forehead now in analysis of each line. Soon he hit on something that puzzled him.
"Dickey," he said.
There was no answer. The old man peering through the window seemed to have bent and whitened even since he came into the room.
"Look 'ere, Dickey," went on David, "this dashed fairy-tale won't hold water. You know Coke. Is 'e the kind o' man to go bumpin' round like a stage 'ero, an' hoisting Union Jacks as the ship sinks? I ax you, is 'e? It's nonsense, stuff an' nonsense. An', if the Andromeeda was scrapped at Fernando Noronha, 'oo were the freebooters that collared the island, an' 'ow did this 'ere De Sylva get to Maceio? Are you listenin'?"
"Yes," said Bulmer, turning at last, and devouring Verity with his deep-set eyes.
"Well, wot d'ye think of it?"
"Did you send the ship to Fernando Noronha?"
It is needless to place on record the formula of David's denial. It was forcible, and served its purpose—that should suffice.
"Under ordinary conditions she would 'ave passed the island about the 31st?" continued Bulmer.