“What do you mean, Ivor?” she urged in a tone almost as rough as his. “Tell me. Tell me quick. I must know. Jim’s alive. The Imperial——”
McLagan shook his head.
“I don’t think he’s alive. And the ship——”
“You mean he’s dead—killed—maybe——”
“Murdered for his stuff.”
Again there fell a silence and the man watched the face of the girl through the smoke of his cigar. Her breath was coming quickly, and she was struggling for composure. At last she steadied herself.
“Ivor, tell me. Oh, tell me all you know. Don’t keep me in suspense. I know. I see. It’s—it’s something to do with that wreck and—and the shadow——” She flung out one delicate finger, pointing, “That figure. It—it—was—Jim’s—shadow. Oh!”
The girl’s intuition had leapt. There was excitement, passion, horror in that final ejaculation and the man saw that it was no moment for delay. There was a dreadful look in the beautiful eyes that were gazing wildly into his. He removed his cigar.
“Get a grip on yourself, little girl,” he said quickly, and in that tone of gentleness he only rarely used. “I’ll tell you what I know. It’s not a deal. But it’s enough to say—to my mind—that Jim was murdered. The wreck down on my coast is your Jim’s ship. That I know beyond doubt. And that shadow—I don’t know how it comes there, I don’t know the meaning of ghostly shadows, but I guess I’ve convinced myself I’ve recognised in that shadow a crazy sort of outline of your Jim. Jim was a mighty big man and he had a walk I’d recognise dead easy. Do you remember, kid, that ghost, or whatever it was, was moving. It was a queer figure of a man walking—towards us. Do you remember? But of course you do. Do you know I sort of recognised Jim’s walk in that thing’s movements?” He shook his head with a puzzled, far-off look in his eyes. “Guess, maybe, it’s fancy. Maybe I’m all wrong. But, anyway, the notion’s back of my head. Jim died right there on that deck. He was killed—murdered—while he was walking aft.”
He went on at once as the girl remained silent.