Days passed and ran into weeks, but the Golden Cloud was still unspoken. Fraser got a paper every day when ashore, but in vain, until at length one morning, at Bittlesea, in the news columns of the Daily Telegraph, the name of the missing ship caught his eye. He folded the paper hurriedly, and breathed hard as he read:—
“Missing ship, Golden Cloud.
“Rio Janeiro, Thursday.
“The barque Foxglove, from Melbourne to Rio Janeiro, has just arrived with five men, sole survivors of the ship Golden Cloud, which they report as sunk in collision with a steamer, name unknown, ten weeks out from London. Their names are Smith, Larsen, Petersen, Collins and Gooch. No others saved.”
In a dazed fashion he read the paragraph over and over again, closely scanning the names of the rescued men. Then he went up on deck, and beckoning to Joe, pointed with a trembling finger to the fatal paragraph. Joe read it slowly.
“And Cap’in Flower wasn’t one o’ them, sir?” he asked, pointing to the names.
Fraser shook his head, and both men stood for some time in silence.
“He’s done it this time, and no mistake,” said Joe, at last. “Well, ’e was a good sailorman and a kind master.”
He handed the paper back, and returned to his work and to confer in a low voice with Green, who had been watching them. Fraser went back to the cabin, and after sitting for some time in a brown study, wrote off to Poppy Tyrell and enclosed the cutting.
He saw her three days later, and was dismayed and surprised to find her taxing herself with being the cause of the adventurous mariner’s death.