“Then you were going to relatives?”
“I do not know. I am not sure. My father had some people—once. But they treated him unkindly, I believe. He had not heard from them for years. My father was Captain Erskin Duane. He died very, very suddenly. My mother had been a long time dead,” and the tears now began to fill her eyes and creep down her pale cheeks.
“Friends who were about to go to England took me on the Galland with them. These were Mr. Suffix, and Mr. and Mrs. Traine, and Cecelia Traverstone.”
“Were they saved?” asked Mr. Gates, quietly.
“I do not know. I think not. I think the steamer’s boilers blew up and smashed most of the boats and liferafts, so that few were saved,” said the girl, simply.
“You poor child!” breathed Captain Bowditch, blowing his nose right afterward like a fog siren.
“I am Phillis Duane,” she said, after a moment. “I traveled with my ayer and Dao Singh, who would not leave me when father died. He had always served the captain. We lived up country from Calcutta. I do not think that my father was very well acquainted with the people I sailed with, after all. I was alone, and they were just kind to me.”
“And you don’t know what you were going to do when you reached England—whom you would meet?” queried Mr. Gates, gravely.
“No. It was all in the hands of my friends,” she said, shaking her head. “And I am quite sure they never got away from the Galland. I would not, had it not been for Dao Singh.”
“That nigger, eh?” grunted the captain.