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"Something I don't remember now " muttered Lingard, who felt a chill down his back at the idea of his own vessel decaying slowly in some Dutch port. "He died didn't he?" he asked, absently, while he wondered whether he would have the pluck to set fire to the brig on an emergency. "Cut his throat on the beach below Fort Rotterdam," said Jorgenson.
But believe me, King Tom, you did me too much honour. Jorgenson is perfectly right in being angry with you for having taken a woman in tow." "He didn't mean to be rude," protested Lingard, earnestly. Mrs.
He asked from the remoteness of his dead past, "What have you left outside, Tom? What is there now?" "There's the yacht on the shoals, my brig at anchor, and about a hundred of the worst kind of Illanun vagabonds under three chiefs and with two war-praus moored to the edge of the bank. Maybe Daman is with them, too, out there." "No," said Jorgenson, positively. "He has come in," cried Lingard.
"It isn't a delusion on my part. The worst is that he hates me not for myself. I believe he is completely indifferent to my existence. Jorgenson hates me because as it were I represent you two who are in danger, because it is you two that are the trouble and I . . . Well!" "Yes, yes, that's certain," said d'Alcacer, hastily. "But Jorgenson is wrong in making you the scapegoat.
"I set fire to her with my own hands!" he said in a vibrating tone and very low, as if making a monstrous confession. "Poor devil," muttered Lingard, profoundly moved by the tragic enormity of the act. "I suppose there was no way out?" "I wasn't going to let her rot to pieces in some Dutch port," said Jorgenson, gloomily. "Did you ever hear of Dawson?"
After a moment a woman's voice, which struck even him as strange, said in faint tones: "I have it. It's stopped." "It doesn't matter. I don't want to know the time. There should be a key about. See it anywhere?" "Yes, it's fastened to the watch," the dazed voice answered from within. Jorgenson waited before making his request. "Will you pass it out to me? There's precious little time left now!"
"Jorgenson," the voice of Lingard resounded all along the deck, "get a light on the gangway." Then he followed Mrs. Travers slowly. D'Alcacer, after receiving his warning, stepped back and leaned against the edge of the table. He could not ignore in himself a certain emotion. And indeed, when he had asked Mrs.
His was an insensible, almost a senseless presence! Nothing could be extorted from it. But a wave of anguish as confused as all her other sensations swept Mrs. Travers off her feet. "Can't you tell me something?" she cried. For half a minute perhaps Jorgenson made no sound; then: "For years I have been telling anybody who cared to ask," he mumbled in his moustache. "Telling Tom, too.
On the afternoon of the very day he had arrived with her on board the Emma to the infinite disgust of Jorgenson Lingard held with Mrs. From the nature of the problem it could not be exhaustive; but toward the end of it they were both feeling thoroughly exhausted. Mrs. Travers had no longer to be instructed as to facts and possibilities.
It seemed to her even less palpable than a cloud, a mere sinister immobility above the unrest of the sea, nursing in its depth the unrest of men who, to her mind, were no more real than fantastic shadows. What struck Mrs. Travers most, directly she set eyes on him, was the other-world aspect of Jorgenson.
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