Elliott laughed a little wearily. “No, we haven’t got it. I’ve given up thinking that we ever will, though Henninger has just wired me that he’s going to search the whole Mozambique Channel.”
“Isn’t Henninger with you?”
“No, he’s in Zanzibar, and the other fellows are strung out all along the East Africa coast. It’s a long story, and there’s not much comfort in it, but let’s go over to the park and I’ll tell you.”
“Start it as we walk along. Man, I’ve been hungering and thirsting for some news from that job.”
So on the street Elliott began the story, of the great game in Nashville that had financed the expedition, of the voyages of the party, and of his own adventures on the train in Bombay and Hongkong. He finished it on a park bench, with the killing of the missionary, and the high-class form of “shanghaing,” of which he had himself been the victim. Of Margaret he judged it best to say nothing.
Bennett listened feverishly, interrupting the story with impatient questions. When Elliott had finished he sat in meditation for a couple of minutes.
“Henninger is right,” he pronounced at last. “The only thing now is to search the channel. Are you sure the address your old missionary gave was a fake?”
“I can’t believe it was anything else. Why else would he have risked killing rather than have it tested?”
“It looks so. His directions must have been somewhere near the right spot, though; I’ve been looking at maps. Anyhow, I’ll know the island again when I see it.”
“The wreck will mark it, won’t it?”