"You've done so, you blockhead! You've put the rope round your own neck!"
"On the contrary, my good Scrafton, I've simply waited until I was certain of slipping it round yours. You would see that for yourself if you hadn't drunk your brain to a pulp. You would have seen it by the way I sent you to the devil this evening. However, I think you're beginning to see it now!"
"I see nothing," snarled Scrafton; "and you can prove nothing! But if I can't hang you, I can tell enough to make you glad to go out and hang yourself. It doesn't much matter what happens to me. I'm old and poor, and about done for in any case, or I might think more of my own skin. But you're on the top of the wave—and I'll have you back in the trough! You're living on the fat of the land—you shall see how you like skilly! Never mind who did the trick; who took the money when it was done?"
Harry turned once more to Lowndes, and, despite his late convictions, the question was reflected in his face.
"The notes went overboard with your father," said Lowndes. "The gold we found in his bag in the cabin."
"And what did you do with the gold?"
Scrafton echoed the question with his jeering laugh.
"Ringrose," said Lowndes, "it didn't amount to very much; what I consented to take I used for your mother and you, so help me God!"
"Your mother and my eye!" cried Scrafton. "A likely yarn!"
"I believe it," said Harry, after a pause.