Allan took a turn on the deck, and surveyed the wreck critically from stem to stern.
“Not much of a vessel,” he said; “the Frenchmen generally build better ships than this.”
Midwinter crossed the deck, and eyed Allan in a momentary silence.
“Frenchmen?” he repeated, after an interval. “Is this vessel French?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“The men I have got at work on the yacht told me. They know all about her.”
Midwinter came a little nearer. His swarthy face began to look, to Allan’s eyes, unaccountably pale in the moonlight.
“Did they mention what trade she was engaged in?”
“Yes; the timber trade.”