"But you promised, Captain, that you'd co-operate and help us and—"
"And so I will, Miss Glenn," he told her, heartily, patting her shoulder. "You two — and old Sharkmeat also, if he likes — shall have the freedom of the ship, to question whom you like, and say I sent you. If you have news, ha-ha-ha! come to me… By the way, would you like me to release that poor lad from his cell? No? Well, remember that I offered. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll send him a fine basket of fruit, with my compliments, and a specially cooked capon for his dinner. How's that? Then, when we touch England day after to-morrow, we'll see what can be done about obtaining the services of the finest mental-specialist in London…"
He stopped.
"Yes," said Morgan, seizing the opportunity, "and that reminds us all of Dr. Kyle, doesn't it? Not that I believe he's the Blind Barber, but it takes us back to that radiogram from the Police Commissioner, and the fact that— whatever else you believe or don't believe — there's a damned dangerous criminal aboard."
"H'm!" said Whistler. "H'm! Possibly. In any case, I've been instructed not to do anything, haven't I, in case there's a mistake, eh? And the more I think it over, sink met" he said with a happy flash of inspiration, "the more I'm convinced there has been a mistake. Why? I'll tell you. Because dangerous criminals don't steal fifty-thousand-pound jewels and then return 'em, do they? Sink me! you know, if I hadn't been assured by old Sturton that the emerald was returned to him while young Warren was in the brig — well I'd be fairly sure it was more of his mad vapourings. But I know it couldn't have been young Warren… "
"Thank God for that," said Morgan.
"Anyhow," continued Whistler, assuming his hearty manner again, "I'll think it over. I believe it's a mistake and there's no crook aboard at all. Though — h'm — it would be a feather in the cap of the Green Star Line if I could have the honour of nabbing a notorious criminal before that New York detective arrived. I'll think it over. So, if you won't drink a health in Pol Roger — eh — no? Well, good day, good day, good day!"
He was off, saluting jauntily, before the stupefied allies could stop him. He swung his shoulders, his thumbs hooked in his pockets, and he was hoarsely humming a tune to the effect that Captain Ball was a Yankee slaver, blow, blow, blow the man down! His smile was radiant.
When he had gone, Peggy looked about hopelessly.
"Hank," she said, "it's no good. We can't beat Providence. Let's give it up. Let's go to the bar and get screamingly drunk."