“But the three survivors who are now in prison,” Cecil said. “Their behaviour, their lying, needs some accounting for.”
“Quite simple,” the Frenchman went on. “They are in prison for three years. What is that to an Arab? He will suffer it with stoicism. Say that ten thousand francs are deposited with each of their families. When they come out, they are rich for life. At a cost of thirty thousand francs and the price of the ship—say another thirty thousand—the thieves reasonably expected to obtain absolute security.”
“It was a heroic idea!” said Cecil.
“It was,” said the Frenchman. “But it has failed.”
“Evidently. But why?”
“Can you ask? You know as well as I do! It has failed, partly because there were too many persons in the secret, partly because of the Arab love of display on great occasions, and partly because of a mole on a man’s chin.”
“By the way, that was the man I came here to see,” Cecil remarked.
“He is arrested,” said the Frenchman curtly, and then he sighed. “The booty was not guarded with sufficient restrictions. It was not kept in bulk. One thief probably said: ‘I cannot do without this lovely watch.’ And another said: ‘What a revolver! I must have it.’ Ah! The Arab, the Arab! The Europeans ought to have provided for that. That is where they were foolish—the idiots! The idiots!” he repeated angrily.
“You seem annoyed.”
“Mr. Thorold, I am a poet in these things. It annoys me to see a fine composition ruined by bad construction in the fifth act.... However, as chief of the surety, I rejoice.”