Fraser regarded her with an expression of studied sadness. “Not so far back as that,” he said, softly.
Miss Tyrell manifested a slight restlessness. “Is it a sort of riddle?” she demanded.
“No, it’s a tale,” replied Fraser, not without a secret admiration of his unsuspected powers of breaking bad news; “a tale with a bad ending.”
The girl misunderstood him. “If you mean that Captain Flower doesn’t want to come here, and sent you to say so—” she began, with dignity.
“He can’t come,” interrupted the mate, hastily.
“Did he send you to tell me?” she asked
Fraser shook his head mournfully. “He can’t come,” he said, in a low voice; “he had a bad foot—night before last he was standing on the ship’s side—when he lost his hold—”
He broke off and eyed the girl nervously, “and fell overboard,” he concluded.
Poppy Tyrell gave a faint cry and, springing to her feet, stood with her hand on the back of her chair regarding him. “Poor fellow,” she said, softly—“poor fellow.”
She sat down again by the open window and nervously plucked at the leaves of a geranium. Her face was white and her dark eyes pitiful and tender. Fraser, watching her, cursed his resourceful skipper and hated himself.