“We must inquire about this,” said Deb earnestly.  “We must get the names of those on board.  He may have been on leave.”  She was a prompt person, and as she spoke looked at the clock—­a little after four—­ and laid the paper down.  “I’ll drive you to the station, daddy, and we’ll telegraph to the shipping people and his doctor friend.  We’ll get authentic information somehow, if we have to cable home for it.”

They were off in a quarter of an hour, having sent a message to Mary by Miss Keene to explain their errand.  They dined in the township while waiting for replies, and came home late at night, heavy-hearted, with the melancholy news confirmed.  Since it happened to be the transition moment, when Mr Carey had ceased to be a mate, and was only a prospective commander, the authorities in Melbourne, consulting latest advices, had no doubt of his having been on the Dovedale to the last.  Those of them who presently found themselves mistaken did not take the trouble to say so.  They left it to time and the newspapers.

But meanwhile Mary Pennycuick sadly complicated the case.  When Deb and her father returned from their expedition, it was to hear from Frances an excited story of how the elder sister had hidden behind locked doors, and not only refused dinner but denied speech to all comers.

“We know she’s there, because she said ‘Go away’ to Miss Keene when she knocked first; but since then she hasn’t said a word—­not for hours and hours.  I’ve been listening at her door since Miss Madden let me out of school.  I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Frances, who had a fine imagination, “if she’s committed suicide.  Poor Mr Carey was her lover, you know.”

“Pooh!” said Deb.

She knew whose lover poor Mr Carey had been.  But she ran to Mary’s room in some concern.  She tried the handle of the door, and then rapped sharply.

“Molly, open this door!” she commanded.

And there was a rustle inside, a shuffling step, and the lock clicked.  She marched in, to see Mary fling herself back on the bed from which she had risen, with a protesting wail: 

“Oh, why can’t you all let me alone?”

“Why, what’s the matter?” Deb climbed on the bed, and tried to lift the half-buried head to her breast—­a signal for the pent-up grief to burst forth.  “Molly, sweetheart, what’s all this about?”

“Oh, my love! my love!” keened Mary wildly.  “Oh, Deb! oh, Deb!  He was my all, and he’s dead, and I can’t bear it—­I can’t!  I can’t!”

Deb pursed her lips, and the colour rose in her clear cheek.  She saw the situation, so pathetic and so ignominious!  She could not understand a woman falling in love with, and then breaking her heart for, a man who had never cared for her.  But then Deb’s face was not heavy and bricky, with prominent cheek-bones, and a forehead four inches high.

“My precious,” she crooned, as tenderly as if she understood it all, and as if her immense pity was not mixed with contempt—­“don’t, don’t!  It doesn’t matter about me, but don’t let the others think—­It would be too undignified, darling—­a casual acquaintance—­though a dear, good boy as ever lived—­”