Suddenly a thought came to him, a thought which struck the smile from his lips. Eunice Weldon might forgive him and might marry him and change the drab roadway of life to a path of flowers, but Dorothy Danton was a rich woman, wealthy beyond her dreams, and Jim Steele was a poor man. He sat back in his chair to consider that disquieting revelation. He could never marry the girl Eunice now, he thought; it would not be fair to her, or to him. Suppose she never knew! He smiled contemptuously at the thought.
“Get thee behind me, Satan,” he said to the little dog that crouched at his feet, watching him with eyes that never left his face. He bent down and patted the mongrel, who turned on his back with uplifted paws. “You and I have no particular reason to love Digby Groat, old fellow,” he said, for this was the dog he had rescued from Digby’s dissecting table, “and if he harms a hair of her head, he will be sorry he was ever born.”
He began his search in the morning, almost as soon as the shipping offices opened. One by one they blasted his hopes, and he scarcely dared make his last call which was at the office of the African Coastwise Line.
“And I don’t think it is much use going to them,” said the clerk at the last but one of his calls. “They don’t sail from London, they are a Liverpool firm, and all their packets sail direct from the Mersey. I don’t think we have ever had a Coastwise boat in the London docks. I happen to know,” he explained, “because I was in the Customs before I came to this firm.”
The Coastwise Line was an old-fashioned firm and occupied an old-fashioned office in a part of London which seemed to be untouched by the passing improvements of the age. It was one of those firms which have never succumbed to the blandishments of the Company Promoter, and the two senior partners of the firm, old gentlemen who had the appearance of being dignitaries of the Church, were seated on either side of a big partner’s table.
Jim was received with old-world courtesy and a chair was placed for him by a porter almost as ancient as the proprietors of the African Coastwise Line.
Both the gentlemen listened to his requirements in silence.
“I don’t think we have ever had a ship pass through the Straits of Dover,” said one, shaking his head. “We were originally a Liverpool firm, and though the offices have always been in London, Liverpool is our headquarters.”
“And Avonmouth,” murmured his partner.
“And Avonmouth, of course,” the elder of the two acknowledged the correction with a slight inclination of his head.
“Then there is no reason why I should trouble you, gentlemen,” said Jim with a heavy heart.
“It is no trouble, I assure you,” said the partner, “but to make absolutely sure we will get our sailings for—June, 1901, I think you said?”
He rang a bell, and to the middle-aged clerk, who looked so young, thought Jim, that he must be the office-boy, he made his request known. Presently the clerk came back with a big ledger which he laid on the partners’ desk. He watched the gentleman as his well-manicured finger ran carefully down the pages and suddenly stopped.
“Why, of course,” he said, looking up, “do you remember we took over a Union African trip when they were hard pressed with transport work?”
“To be sure,” said his partner. “It was the Battledore we sent out, she went from Tilbury. The only ship of ours that has ever sailed from Thames River.”
“What date did it sail?” asked Jim eagerly.
“It sailed with the tide, which was apparently about eight o’clock in the morning of the 21st June. Let me see,” said the partner, rising and going to a big chart that hung on the wall, “that would bring her up to the North Foreland Light at about twelve o’clock. What time did the accident occur?”
“At noon,” said Jim huskily, and the partners looked at one another.
“I don’t remember anything peculiar being reported on that voyage,” said the senior slowly.
“You were in Switzerland at the time,” said the other, “and so was I. Mr. Mansar was in charge.”
“Is Mr. Mansar here?” asked Jim eagerly.
“He is dead,” said the partner gently. “Yes, poor Mr. Mansar is dead. He died at a comparatively early age of sixty-three, a very amiable man, who played the piano remarkably well.”
“The violin,” murmured his partner.
Jim was not interested in the musical accomplishments of the deceased Mr. Mansar.
“Is there no way of finding out what happened on that voyage?”
It was the second of the partners who spoke.
“We can produce the log book of the Battledore.”
“I hope we can,” corrected the other. “The Battledore was sunk during the Great War, torpedoed off the Needles, but Captain Pinnings, who was in command of her at the time, is alive and hearty.”
“And his log book?” asked Jim.
“That we must investigate. We keep all log books at the Liverpool office, and I will write tonight to ask our managing clerk to send the book down, if it is in his possession.”
“This is very urgent,” said Jim earnestly. “You have been so kind that I would not press you if it were not a matter of the greatest importance. Would it be possible for me to go to Liverpool and see the log?”
“I think I can save you that trouble,” said the elder of the two, whose names Jim never knew. “Mr. Harry is coming down to London tomorrow, isn’t he?”
His friend nodded.
“Well, he can bring the book,
