The officer's mouth fell open.
"Drugged, Mr.Croon?"
"Yes, drugged!" The ship rolled on its beam ends, and Croon gave himself up for a full minute to his anguish. "Oh, don't argue about it! Take me home!"
"Well, sir, I'm afraid that's —"
"Fetch me the captain!"
"I am the captain, sir. Captaine Bourne. You seem to have forgotten, sir. This is the Christabel Jane, eighteen hours out of Liverpool with a cargo of spirits for the United States. We don't usually take passengers, sir, but seeing that you were a friend of the owner, and you wanted to make the trip, why, of course we found you a berth."
Croon buried his face in his hands.
He had no more questions to ask. The main details of the conspiracy were plain enough. One of his victims had turned on him for revenge — or perhaps several of them had banded together for the purpose. He had been threatened often before. And somehow his terror of the sea had become known. It was poetic justice — to shanghai him on board a bootlegging ship and force him to take the journey of which he had cheated their investments.
"How much will you take to turn back?" he asked; and Captain Bourne shook his head.
"You still don't seem to understand, sir. There's ten thousand pounds' worth of spirits on board — at least, they'll be worth ten thousand pounds if we get them across safely — and I'd lose my job if I —"