“Oh, my God!” It was all the moan she ever made, but she reeled as she uttered it—reeled and would have fallen but that Duncan caught her.
“There is but one burial-place for those who die at sea,” was the reply, spoken gently and hesitatingly. “Far from land, it is impossible to do anything with the body except——”
“I did not know that this lady was so near a relative,” began Mr. Hunter, apologetically; but Phemie broke across his sentence.
“What more? He was buried, you say? Had he no one with him—no servant—no friend?”
“He had his servant, the man tells me, who took the bulk of his luggage away with him directly the Lahore came into the docks. He must have satisfied the captain on the matter by some plausible tale, or else he would not have been permitted to do so. How he chanced to leave those boxes I am at a loss to imagine, for I conclude his object was to appropriate the property. We can hear nothing further, however, till the return of the Singapore, for the surgeon who was on board the Lahore has gone on even a longer voyage, and will be away for three years.”
“The passengers?” suggested Duncan.
“True,” answered Mr. Hunter, “you might learn something from them. About these boxes? You would wish them sent on to Marshlands, I presume?”
“No,” said Phemie; “his mother ought to have everything belonging to him. I will write to her, and then she will say where she should like them forwarded.”
She asked no more questions, she made no further remark; there were no confidences exchanged between her and Duncan on their way back to the station, only as he stood by the carriage window waiting till the train should move off, her cousin said, a little bitterly—
“How fond you were of that man, Phemie.” And she replied—