re 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