“But really, Miss Upton, he must have done something, you know! And he actually talked to Dr. Baumgartner about this; not of doing it himself, but of stowaways in general, à propos of his voyage; and how many pounds of biscuit and how many ounces of water would carry one alive into blue water. There’s another thing, by the way! He told Baumgartner the ship touched nowhere between the East India Docks and Melbourne; he would be out of the world for three whole months.”
“And she only sailed yesterday?” cried Mr. Upton, coming furiously to his feet. “And you let her get through the Straits of Dover and out to sea while you came down here to tell me this by inches?”
Thrush blinked blandly through his port-hole glasses.
“I’m letting her go as far as Plymouth,” said he, “where one or both of us will board her tomorrow if she’s up to time!”
“You said she didn’t touch anywhere between the docks and Melbourne?”
“No; your son said that, Mr. Upton, and it was his one mistake. They don’t usually touch, but a son of one of the owners happens to have gone round in the ship to Plymouth for the trip. I got it first from an old boatswain of the line who’s caretaker at the office, and the only man there, of course, yesterday afternoon; but I’ve since bearded one of the partners at his place down the river, and had the statement confirmed and amplified. One or two pasengers are only going aboard at Plymouth, so she certainly won’t sail again before to-morrow noon, even if she’s there by then. You will be in ample time to board her—and I’ve got a sort of search-warrant from the partner I saw—if you go down by the 12.15 from Paddington to-night.”
The ironmaster asked no more questions; that was good enough for him, he said, and went off to tell a last lie to his wife, with the increasing confidence of one gradually mastering the difficulties of an uncongenial game. He felt also that a happy issue was in sight, and after that he could tell the truth and liberate his soul. He was pathetically sanguine of the solution vicariously propounded by Eugene Thrush, and prepared to rejoice in a discovery which would have filled him with dismay and chagrin if he had not been subconsciously prepared for something worse. It never occurred to Mr. Upton to question the man’s own belief in the theory he had advanced; but Lettice did so the moment she had the visitor to herself in the smoking-room, where it fell to her to do certain honours vice Horace, luckily engaged at the works. “And do you believe this astounding theory, Mr. Thrush?”
Thrush eyed her over his tumbler’s rim, but completed his draught before replying.
“It’s not my province to believe or to disbelieve, Miss Upton; my job is to prove things one way or the other.”
“Then I’ll tell you just one thing for your guidance: my brother is absolutely incapable of the conduct you ascribe to him between you.”