Dan Pritchard stared at his friend, wide unbelief in his glance. “Explain yourself, Mel. This is most astounding.”
“Some folks are fools for luck,” Mellenger sighed. “Banning and Company paid forty-two cents on the dollar and that receiver managed to pry fifty cents on the dollar out of the Katsuma estate. Other losses were not as heavy as anticipated, and several of your heaviest debtors will manage to pay out in three or four years, if your luck holds. The thing that saved you, however, was a typhoon in the China Sea. The steamer Malayan, with eight thousand tons of high-priced rice insured to its full value, must have foundered in that typhoon, for she never reached Havana and was eventually posted at Lloyd’s as missing. Consequently the receiver collected the insurance, which put your business back on its feet again. You’re still a rich man, Dan.”
Dan Pritchard placed his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands. He quivered a little. Mellenger ignored him. He lighted one of Hackett’s Sumatra cigars and puffed away silently, gazing out to the white water purling over the reef.
“Peaceful spot, this,” he observed presently. “The Land of Never Worry. How are you fixed for points of intellectual contact?”
“I haven’t any,” Dan confessed in a strangled voice.
“Been doing any painting, old son?”
“Half a dozen canvases. They’re no good.”
“You haven’t asked me about Maisie Morrison, Dan.”
“I haven’t any right to, Mel.”
“Then I shall tell you about her. She is in good health, but not very happy. That is because she loves you. Splendid woman, Maisie. You made a grave mistake by not marrying her. I told you to.”