“No, an’ not likely to,” said Mrs. Tipping; “fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six, and a pair’s eight.”
“Where’s the fifteen six?” enquired Fraser, glancing over.
“Eight and seven,” said the lady, pitching the cards with the others and beginning to shuffle for the next deal.
“It’s very strange behaviour,” said the mate; “Robinson, I mean. Do you think he’s dead?”
“No, I don’t,” said Mrs. Tipping, briefly. “Where’s that captain of yours?”
Fraser, whose anxiety was becoming too much for his play, leaned over the table as though about to speak, and then, apparently thinking better of it, went on with the game.
“Eh?” said Mrs. Tipping, putting her cards face downwards on the table and catching his eye. “Where?”
“O, nowhere,” said Fraser, awkwardly. “I don’t want to be dragged into this, you know. It isn’t my business.”
“If you know where he is, why can’t you tell us?” asked Mrs. Tipping, softly. “There’s no harm in that.”
“What’s the good?” enquired Fraser, in a low voice; “when you’ve seen the old man you won’t be any forwarder—he wouldn’t tell you anything even if he knew it.”