“We’ll never find them,” said Lang, without concern. Emeralds were nothing to him just then. He had recovered what was more to him than any emeralds, and he glanced at Eva and met her fascinated, astonished gaze with an almost delighted smile. He knew that she knew.
But Morrison, groaning and raging, had fished out the shapeless bullet from the basin, and was examining it.
“Look here? How’s this?” he exclaimed. “You shot him with your rifle—a .44 soft bullet, I know. This bullet never came from that gun. This is a revolver bullet, a small bullet, an automatic.”
Startled out of his dizzy elation, Lang took the bullet and looked at it. Indeed it was, as he recognized, too small for his rifle.
“Who fired that bullet?” Morrison was demanding hoarsely. “Who killed him? You didn’t. Suicide? Nonsense!”
Suddenly Lang remembered the shot that Morrison had heard in the night.
“Louie was ashore all night!” he exclaimed.
“By gad, he was!” cried Morrison. “It was his shot. The young rattlesnake met Carroll, got his gun, shot him, got the stones. It can’t be anything else. Louie’s cached them somewhere. Thank Heaven we’ve got him under our hands.”
He snatched up the rifle and dashed toward the beach, intending to close the business at last. Lang glanced at his patient; he would be back in a minute, and, with a hasty word to Eva, he ran after Morrison, overtaking him on the bluff over the bay.
The Chita was below them, thirty yards away. Her cabin windows were wide open, and Lang caught a vague stir of movement within.