I have not said anything so far of my wife, and she has small part in this story. Let it suffice that she was with me heart and soul in my interest for and love for Ella Madison, and our only desire was to help her as we could, I as a medical man, she as a woman full of human sympathy. The event came at the beginning of a gale off Cape Hatteras, when Lance was half drunk, and Dunbar excited and interested in the work of snugging down. He was on deck, and I heard his roaring orders to his men while I, with my wife, attended the poor girl below in her stateroom.
I had seen in Dunbar's eyes the suspicion that he entertained, but had not yet brought myself to the point of informing him. Yet it came unexpectedly, when, clad in oilskins, he caught me at the companionway, and said:
"What's the matter? Is anything wrong with Miss Madison?"
"Dunbar," I answered, "she will be delivered of a child in less than an hour; and its father is George Lance, who saved your life. Be careful what you do or what you say."
The man reeled as though I had struck him, then went forward, and I heard his voice, directing his mate and men. I hoped that his strength of soul would stand by him.
I went below, meeting Lance in the forward cabin. He was half-intoxicated, and I had small interest in his conversation, but he said something that I remembered.
"No need, Doctor, to preserve any evidence of this. I'll see to that all right. Just leave it to me, and she can go on and live her life, and I'll go on and live my life, just the same. It's all a matter of common sense. Understand."
I did not understand—until later, when, having left Ella Madison with a small, crying creature in her arms, I went to my berth utterly exhausted, and was aroused by my wife, who said: "The baby is missing. Where can it be?"
I turned out and peeped into Ella's stateroom. She was sleeping peacefully, but there was no sign of the babe.
"I only left her a few minutes ago," said my wife, "and the little one was beside her. It had stopped crying."