“I don’t know what I might have done, if I had ever been in the Highlands,” he said. “As it is, I have had no opportunities of giving the subject any serious consideration.”
“I won’t put your credulity to the test,” Clara proceeded. “I won’t ask you to believe anything more extraordinary than that I had a strange dream in England not very long since. My dream showed me what you have just acknowledged—and more than that. How did the two missing men come to be parted from their companions? Were they lost by pure accident, or were they deliberately left behind on the march?”
Crayford made a last vain effort to check her inquiries at the point which they had now reached.
“Neither Steventon nor I were members of the party of relief,” he said. “How are we to answer you?”
“Your brother officers who were members of the party must have told you what happened,” Clara rejoined. “I only ask you and Mr. Steventon to tell me what they told you.”
Mrs. Crayford interposed again, with a practical suggestion this time.
“The luncheon is not unpacked yet,” she said. “Come, Clara! this is our business, and the time is passing.”
“The luncheon can wait a few minutes longer,” Clara answered. “Bear with my obstinacy,” she went on, laying her hand caressingly on Crayford’s shoulder. “Tell me how those two came to be separated from the rest. You have always been the kindest of friends—don’t begin to be cruel to me now!”
The tone in which she made her entreaty to Crayford went straight to the sailor’s heart. He gave up the hopeless struggle: he let her see a glimpse of the truth.
“On the third day out,” he said, “Frank’s strength failed him. He fell behind the rest from fatigue.”