"Merciful God!" and his eyes fairly blazed into mine, as he suddenly forced his body upward in the bunk. "The Santa Marie adrift! the crew dead from cholera? And the Captain—Paradilla, Francis Paradilla——what of him?"
"He lay alone on a divan in the cabin—dead also."
He tried to speak, but failed, his fingers clawing at his throat. When he finally gained utterance once more, it was but a whisper.
"Tell me," he begged, "there was no woman with him?"
I stared back into the wild insanity of his eyes, trying to test my words, suddenly aware that we were upon the edge of tragedy, perhaps uncovering the hidden secret of this man's life.
"There was no woman," I said gravely, "on deck or in the cabin."
"What mean you by saying that? There was one on board! Don't lie to me! In an hour I am dead—but first tell me the truth. Does the woman live?"
"No, she died before. We found her body in a chest, preserved by some devilish Indian art, richly dressed, and decked with jewels."
"English?"
"I judged her so, but with dark hair and eyes. You knew her?"