"Excuse me, Captain,—Sinclair, did you say?" exclaimed Sir Frederic, suddenly aroused to interest by the familiar name.
"Aye, Aye, Sir, Maurice Sinclair, a lad of about fifteen years. He said he'd got into some scrape at home and had just started out on his own hook, and"—
"Maurice Sinclair,—Twelve years ago,—Did he die?" Sir Frederic almost screamed in the old Captain's ear as a howling blast swept by, nearly driving their feet from under them.
The old man steadied him with a powerful hand but his ire was rising at these frequent interruptions to his favorite yarn, and he answered somewhat snappishly, "Die? Yes, poor lad. He died in my arms that very night in the height of the gale, when the rigging was swept away and the waves was washing the upper deck—"
"Can you prove that?" demanded Sir Frederic, excitedly.
"Prove what? that the rigging was swept away?" thundered the old salt, now thoroughly angry.
"No! No!—that Maurice Sinclair died in your arms, twelve years ago."
Well I ruther guess I can, seein' as I've got the young chap's partin' letter to his mother in London and a picter of the old lady herself"—
"Let me see it, quick," said Sir Frederic, then in a measure controlling himself, he told him as briefly as possible of Maurice Sinclair's return to his mother's house a little over two years ago and of the crime for which he was wanted by the city authorities.
The old Captain was inclined to be incredulous, but before Sir Frederic had finished his story, his ire had vanished, so also had all recollection of the yarn he had been about to spin, and leaving the timid young man to return as best he could, he laid his hand on Sir Frederic's arm and hurried him down the companion way while he muttered spitefully between his teeth: