Their story was soon told, for it was brief. The two children, a son of each, had been out playing together in the early evening. The last they could learn of them was to the effect that a negro man, named Simkins, had been seen talking to them. Simkins was a drunken loafer. The unhappy women had themselves discovered that a little skiff, in which Simkins had a part interest, was missing from its place—and the tracks of boyish feet in the sand could be seen where the bow of the boat had been. Doubtless Simkins had beguiled them with the prospect of a cruise—and what then?
In a moment Gordon was questioning them with eager interest, interpreting their replies with difficulty; for their dialect, unfamiliar to him at the best, was now more unintelligible by reason of their grief. While he spoke with them the women instinctively drew closer, as if confident of a friend.
"Where do you suppose he rowed them to?" he asked quickly.
The women didn't know.
"Where does this man Simkins live?" he asked, after some further questioning.
"'Way down by Pickett's Landin'—by de long wauf," one of the women said. "But he done started from heah, sah."
"The long wharf," repeated Gordon, turning to me, "where is that wharf? For that's where he'd try to land, likely enough—and if anything's happened, that's where it likely occurred."
"I know the place," I answered, "but it's about a mile away."
"We'll search this place first," he said decisively, "and if we find no sign we'll look there. Have you any idea where we could get a lantern?"
I thought there might possibly be one in uncle's warehouse. A minute later Gordon was inside, having found an unlocked window. Two or three matches flared and spluttered; then a steady light, and in a moment he had reappeared with the lantern.