Claire was startled. She sat up in her rocker and one beautifully shaped hand was raised and passed across her smooth brow. Then it rested for a moment upon her wealth of ruddy hair.
“We—we don’t know a thing, Ivor,” she said in a low voice, as she gazed earnestly into his face. “Not a thing but what you’ve heard from us. He’d made a strike. I—I believe it was a wonderful strike. His letter conveyed that. And he was on his way home on the Imperial with the result of it. But whether in dust or a bank credit I can’t even guess. Then the ship sank, and he was drowned——”
McLagan shook his head.
“Not drowned,” he said.
For some moments there followed complete silence.
“But the ship sank. They picked up the S O S. She’s never been heard of since. It was in mid-ocean. And Jim—Jim has never been heard of again.”
The girl’s protest came with swift passionate intensity.
“The ship didn’t sink. And Jim wasn’t—drowned.”
McLagan spoke in that queer rough fashion he never failed to use in moments of deep conviction.
Claire stared at him with questioning eyes. A surge of emotion was driving through her. There was such conviction in the man’s tone and manner. Jim was not drowned. The Imperial did not sink. Suddenly she leant forward.