‘Would not a ship’s quarter-boat have two masts, captain?’ said Mr. McEwan. ‘Ye must know it is my theory that ’tis a case of shipwreck, and that this lady may be the only survivor. Who can tell?’
‘I have known a ship’s long-boat with two masts,’ answered Captain Ladmore, ‘but I never heard of a quarter-boat so rigged.’
‘Then the boat that the Frenchman fell in with may have been a long-boat,’ said the surgeon.
‘I wish to find out all about you,’ said the captain gravely and quietly, glancing at my bare hands and then running his eyes over my dress, ‘that I may be able to send you home. A home you must have—but where? Cannot you tell me that it is in England?’
I looked at him, and my swimming eyes sank. I could not speak.
‘This is sad indeed,’ said he. ‘Did you ever hear of so complete a failure of memory, McEwan?’
‘Oh yes,’ answered the surgeon. ‘I’ll show you fifty examples of utter failure in a book on the brain which I have in my cabin, and I can give you half a dozen instances at least out of my own experience. At the same time,’ he continued, speaking as though I were not present, ‘this case is peculiar and impressive. But I should regard it as hopeful on the whole because, ye see, there’s the capacity of recollecting everything on this side of whatever it may be that occasioned the loss.’
‘Did the Frenchman find nothing in the boat?’ asked the captain gently.
‘Nothing,’ I replied, ‘except a straw hat that was crushed by the fall of the mast, and stained by my wounds.’