“I beg your pardon,” Frank began contritely, but she smiled faintly, saying:
“That name gave me a shock, but I am better now, and I find your story strangely interesting. Go on—tell me more of Jessie Lyndon.”
“There is no more to tell, except that I fear her father must, indeed, have perished in the cruel sea, leaving the poor girl an orphan,” he replied, wondering at the change that began to come over her, the quick flush of color to cheeks and lips, the renewed luster of the fading, eyes. She did not look like a dying woman, now, as she cried feverishly:
“Tell me all you know of Jessie Lyndon’s father!”
“Dear Aunt Verna, I fear this excitement must be very bad for you. Let me take Frank away!” interposed Cora jealously.
“No, no, I am better—I—I—am interested. Let him stay and tell me more of this interesting father and daughter,” her aunt faltered, and with a smoldering flash in her dark eyes, Cora sank back into her chair, while Frank answered:
“I know but little more to tell! Leon Lyndon, as he was called, was a very reticent man, making no friends among the passengers, keeping coldly aloof with a moody air like a man with a tragic past.”
“A tragic past! Well, and his looks? Was he dark or fair?”
“He was fair, with wavy, golden hair, slightly streaked with gray—dark-blue eyes, and a fair mustache. In his youth he must have been rarely handsome, but he could not be less than forty now.”
She cried out tremblingly: