‘Just so,’ exclaimed the captain; ‘they launched their only boat, and then as they lay alongside they shouted to their skipper that if he delayed they would leave him. No man has a chance with a cowardly crew at such a time. I dare say, had it depended upon the French captain and his nephew, you would have been brought on deck and taken into the boat. But well for you, poor lady, that they did not stay to release you! They blew away in the blackness, and in such a sea as was running it is fifty to one if the boat was not capsized.’
‘Are there no initials upon your linen, ma’m?’ inquired the surgeon.
I produced from my pocket the handkerchief which the young Frenchman had examined, and handed it to the surgeon, saying, ‘This was in my pocket when I was rescued, and it must therefore be mine. The letters “A. C.” are upon it. My under-linen is similarly marked.’
He looked at the initials, and then passed the handkerchief to the captain.
‘Do not the letters suggest your name to you?’ said the surgeon. I shook my head. ‘Would you know your name if I were to pronounce it, d’ye think?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘Have you run over any names for yourself?’
‘I cannot think of any names to run over,’ said I.
‘Ha!’ exclaimed the captain, ‘how great, how awful is the mystery of life, is the mystery of the mind!’ and as though overcome he stepped to the porthole and seemed to look out, keeping his back upon us. Mr. McEwan continued to scrutinise me.