“So like, so like, she might be Jessie Lyndon’s sister,” he mused. “But no, that could not be. Mrs. Dalrymple had but one daughter. It is only a chance likeness.”
He began to wonder what their names could be, the father and daughter, and when one of his friends came back to his side he whispered the question:
“What did you say their names were?”
He was astounded when the young man answered calmly:
“His name is Lyndon, and he calls his daughter Jessie.”
“Heavens!” and Laurier started violently.
“What is it?” cried his friend.
“Nothing! Yes, that wretched sickness is coming on again. Will you assist me to my stateroom?”
He lay wakeful and wretched all night, tortured by a name and a semblance, thinking that surely she must have been related to the dead girl by some close tie, and wishing to know her just for the sake of the past.
The next morning, in spite of his bad night, he was on deck early, determined, if possible, to make the acquaintance of the new Jessie Lyndon.