"Edwards?" repeated Slade inquiringly. His mind, still absorbed in the events which he had been relating, groped backward.
Trendon came to his aid. "Barnett asked you about him, you remember. It was when you recovered consciousness. Our ensign. Took over charge of the Laughing Lass."
"Oh, of course. I was a little dazed, I fancy."
"We put Mr. Edwards aboard when we first picked up the deserted schooner," explained the captain.
"Pardon me," said the other. "My head doesn't seem to work quite right yet. Just a moment, please." He sat silent, with closed eyes. "You say you picked up the Laughing Lass. When?" he asked presently.
"Four—five—six days ago, the first time."
"Then you put out the fire."
The circle closed in on Slade, with an unconscious hitching forward of chairs. He had fixed his eyes on the captain. His mouth worked. Obviously he was under a tensity of endeavour in keeping his faculties set to the problem. The surgeon watched him, frowning.
"There was no fire," said the captain.
Slade leaped in his chair. "No fire! But I saw her, I tell you. When I went overboard she was one living flame!"
"You landed in the small boat. Knocked you senseless," said Trendon. "Concussion of the brain. Idea of flame might have been a retroactive hallucination."
"Retroactive rot," cried the other. "I beg your pardon, Dr. Trendon. But if you'd seen her as I saw her Barnett!"
