When a lost friend returns as it were from the grave--from shipwreck,
at any rate, and uncharted travel--you look to find him gaunt, brown,
leathery, hollow of cheek and eye, eh? Foe's appearance didn't
answer to this conception . . . not one little bit.
"Then you didn't sail in the _Eurotas_, after all?" said I, finding
speech. "We saw your name on the list."
"Oh, yes, I did," he interrupted. "And, by the way, we shall have to
talk about her--or, rather, about what I ought to do. . . . Yes, I
know what you'll be advising. 'Go straight to Lloyd's,' no doubt."
"Man alive," said I, "why not? If you were aboard of her--and if, as
you tell me, you fetched somehow to Sydney--why in God's name hasn't
Lloyd's heard of it months ago? There are such things as cables.
. . . Unless, to be sure, you have a reason?"
"I have and I haven't," said Jack. "My turning-up doesn't hurt
anyone, does it? The _Eurotas_ went down, sure enough: and _I_
didn't scuttle her, if that's what you suspect."
"Please don't be an ass, Jack," I pleaded.
"Well, I don't see," he continued, ruminating, "--I don't see any way
but to go to Lloyd's and tell them about it.
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