Miss Lindsay did not contradict him.

“How did it happen?” she inquired, after they had gone some distance in silence.

“They were out in a sailing-boat,” said Mr. Barrett; “the boat capsized in a puff of wind, and they were all drowned.”

“Who was in charge of them?” inquired the girl, after a decent interval.

“Boatman,” replied the other.

“How did you hear?”

“I had a letter from one of my sisters-in-law, Charlotte,” said Mr. Barrett.  “A most affecting letter.  Poor Charlotte was like a second mother to them.  She’ll never be the same woman again.  Never!”

“I should like to see the letter,” said Miss Lindsay, musingly.

Mr. Barrett suppressed a start.  “I should like to show it to you,” he said, “but I’m afraid I have destroyed it.  It made me shudder every time I looked at it.”

“It’s a pity,” said the girl, dryly.  “I should have liked to see it.  I’ve got my own idea about the matter.  Are you sure she was very fond of them?”

“She lived only for them,” said Mr. Barrett, in a rapt voice.

“Exactly.  I don’t believe they are drowned at all,” said Miss Lindsay, suddenly.  “I believe you have had all this terrible anguish for nothing.  It’s too cruel.”

Mr. Barrett stared at her in anxious amazement.

“I see it all now,” continued the girl.  “Their Aunt Charlotte was devoted to them.  She always had the fear that some day you would return and claim them, and to prevent that she invented the story of their death.”

“Charlotte is the most truthful woman that ever breathed,” said the distressed Mr. Barrett.

Miss Lindsay shook her head.  “You are like all other honourable, truthful people,” she said, looking at him gravely.  “You can’t imagine anybody else telling a falsehood.  I don’t believe you could tell one if you tried.”

Mr. Barrett gazed about him with the despairing look of a drowning mariner.

“I’m certain I’m right,” continued the girl.  “I can see Charlotte exulting in her wickedness.  Why!”

“What’s the matter?” inquired Mr. Barrett, greatly worried.

“I’ve just thought of it,” said Miss Lindsay.  “She’s told you that your children are drowned, and she has probably told them you are dead.  A woman like that would stick at nothing to gain her ends.”

“You don’t know Charlotte,” said Mr. Barrett, feebly.

“I think I do,” was the reply.  “However, we’ll make sure.  I suppose you’ve got friends in Melbourne?”

“A few,” said Mr. Barrett, guardedly.

“Come down to the post-office and cable to one of them.”

Mr. Barrett hesitated.  “I’ll write,” he said, slowly.  “It’s an awkward thing to cable; and there’s no hurry.  I’ll write to Jack Adams, I think.”

“It’s no good writing,” said Miss Lindsay, firmly.  “You ought to know that.”