"That's better," grunted the lawyer. "You don't look so much like a posing matinee idol in crimson jersey and biceps!"
Britton apparently did not hear him, being intent upon the dénouement of this harbor tragedy. Under the Mottisfont's powerful search-light everything stood out nakedly clear for rods around. The stricken vessel rolled in a last, pitiful struggle, listed too far for the recovery of her equilibrium, turned turtle and sank like a stone.
"There's the end of incompetence," rasped Ainsworth, while the lady beside Britton gave a sympathetic cry, and the fleet of boats flying from the vortex peril with their human cargoes echoed in choruses of dismay.
"Had you friends?" Britton asked of the woman.
"No,–only my maid and baggage," she answered. "My name is Morris, Maud Morris–and I was travelling alone."
"To Algiers?"
"Yes, to Algiers–at least temporarily."
"Then the inconvenience is not considerable," Britton said. "We will go on board the yacht, and I can find your maid in the morning."
"Ah! you are too generous," murmured the lady. "You have already done more than a woman can repay, and I have not even attended to your wound. Does it pain much?"
"Very little," replied Britton, lightly. "I believe I shall hold you to your promise to bandage it, and I believe it will get well very soon."