“I was asked to make inquiries by relatives of one of the crew,” he said, mendaciously. “Has the mate showed up here at all?”
“Showed up? Of course he did. He had to, by Jupiter! But it was his business to keep in touch with me till the case was gone into and settled. He gave me an address on Malabar Hill,—too swell a locality for a sailorman, thinks I,—and, sure enough, when I sent there for him, they had never heard of him. I’ve not set eyes on him since. He’ll lose his ticket, that’s all.”
“What sort of a report did he make?”
“Why, nothing. Said the ship was rotten, and her cargo shifted in a gale and some of her rivets must have drawn, and she foundered. Every one went down but himself,—all drunk, I suppose. But he didn’t even make a sworn statement. Said he’d come back next day, and I was in a hurry myself, and I let him go, like a fool.”
“You don’t know whether he’s still in the city?”
“I don’t know anything. I’ve set the police to look for him, but these black-and-tan cops don’t amount to anything. He may be half-way to Australia by this time. Like as not he is.”
“Where did he say his ship foundered?” asked Sevier, speaking for the first time.
“Somewhere in the Mozambique Channel, in deep water. He didn’t know exactly. Along about latitude twelve, south, he said. Went down like a lump of lead.”
Elliott thought of her weighty cargo, and, glancing up, he met Sevier’s eye fixed keenly on him.
“Well, if the man can’t be found, I suppose that’s the end of it,” he said, carelessly, and turned away again.