He was interrupted by the opening of the door. On the sill stood the captain of the life-savers, one rough hand to the dripping brim of his sou’wester.
“Pardon, Monsieur le Duc,” he said, “another live un with a broken arm brought ashore. He is here outside. He says he’s the first mate of the Wild Rose.”
“Ah,” muttered Salvières, “perhaps now we can hear how all this came to pass.” And with a quick caution to Régis he hurried into the passage.
The man standing outside the door, one arm hanging limply at his side, was white under his tan and glistening with wet. He was a handsome chap above the middle height, with a trim blond beard cut to a point in naval style, clear gray eyes, and—even in this crisis—a rather proud way of carrying his head.
Salvières looked sharply at him. The horrors of that terrible summer night, the long swim ashore, and the pain of his hurt had left their mark quite unmistakably on the second-in-command of the big steam-yacht that had just foundered; but this did not affect the impassiveness so well in keeping with the square jaw and firm lips of the man.
“When the doctor has set your arm I wish to have a talk with you,” Salvières said. “Sit down. I’ll fetch you some brandy”; and he pointed to the stone bench running along the wall.
“Sit down”; he repeated, but there was no answer. Through the thick panes of one of the round windows, the mate was staring across the lashed waters at the foot of the promontory whereon the “Station” stood, his square chin thrust forward, his resolute lips compressed.
“Keeping the Penvan light east-southeast, and having the South Bay Rock west by north, we should have found the gullet even in such weather,” he said, slowly, without looking again at Salvières.
“Yes,” the latter assented. “Who was master?” He had sent a message to the doctor to come as soon as he could, and now stood motionless beside the sailor.
“Captain Braines—an Englishman, who had never made a mistake in seamanship—stainless record.” The tone was monotonous but convincing.