The question brought a serious eagerness into Emily's face.
"Are you positive, Paul, that you have never seen this man before?"
"I have searched my memory to place him. He is not in it. Why?"
"He was quiet for perhaps an half-hour after you left. I went into the room next door—the mate's—to—to write something. Suddenly I heard him call your name, 'Lavelle.'"
"Impossible!"
"No; I heard the name, 'Lavelle'; just as distinctly as that. I was shocked. I stole in very softly and stood beside him. His eyes were closed, but he kept mumbling, 'That night at Apia——'"
"Apia? Apia?" Paul repeated with interest. "Yes, go on. What else did he say?"
"That was as far as he seemed able to get. I thought he was trying to go over some oft-told story. At last he sank back in exhaustion. I did not dare to speak to him. He has slept ever since and his fever is down. What is Apia? Where is it? What do you think he meant?"
"Apia—in the Samoan Islands. My father was lost there twenty-five years ago in a hurricane which trapped three naval squadrons. He was about my age at the time. Only a little while ago mother wrote me that a photograph I sent her might have been father's. This old fellow must have served under him. He mistook me for him when he saw me so unexpectedly in the doorway. This explains it. The way he attempted to salute when he saw me made me think he was a man-o'-war's man."
A strange, unreasonable hope which had sprung into Emily's heart died.