So it appeared. The commander of the Peru listened sympathetically to what Elliott thought advisable to tell him, but offered no prospect of assistance.
“I don’t see what we can do for you, Mr.—er—Ellis. We don’t stop anywhere, and you can’t expect me to put back to Hongkong.”
“Couldn’t you transfer me to a west-bound ship if we should meet one?”
“I’m afraid not. We carry the mails, and we’re under contract not to slow down for anything but to save life. I take it that this isn’t a question of saving life.”
“No, but it’s a question of millions. Good heavens! I stand to lose enough to buy this ship three times over.”
“That may be, but I’m afraid I can’t act on it. Cheer up. Things will turn out better than you think. You’ll find the Peru a pleasant place for a vacation.”
“Is there any way for me to send a message back to Victoria?”
“Not that I know. Or, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If we run close enough to anything bound for Hongkong to signal her, I’ll give you a chance to throw a bottle overboard with a letter in it. That’s the best I can do for you, and I can’t slow down to do that.”
Elliott chafed with wrath as he left the cabin of the captain, who regarded him with an interest that was obviously unmixed with much credulity. And yet he was obliged to admit that his story was incredible on the face of it, and not helped out by his own haggard and incoherent manner.
He sat down beside the rail, still feeling weak and ill, and yet too angry to care how he felt. Carlton and Sevier had played him a clever trick, almost a stroke of genius. They had put him comfortably out of the way for three weeks, to be landed on the other side of the world, while they sailed away to recover the wrecked treasure, and to escape the investigation when the missionary’s murder should be discovered. With a start of from three weeks to a month they could reasonably hope to have time to plunder the Clara McClay without interruption.