“But the Clara McClay didn’t run ashore,” Elliott reminded him. “She foundered in deep water, you know.”
“Oh, yes, she foundered in deep water,” drawled Sevier. “Have you got the spot marked on your map?”
This attack was so sudden and so unexpected that Elliott floundered.
“That map you have in your pocket, with her course marked in red,” Sevier pursued, relentlessly.
“That map you saw on the steamer? That wasn’t a chart of the Clara McClay’s course. Or, at least,” Elliott went on, recovering his wind, “I don’t suppose it is, accurately. I drew it to see if I could make out where she must have sunk, by a sort of dead reckoning. You see, I felt a certain interest in her on account of the inquiries I was commissioned to make. Nobody knows exactly what her course was.”
“Nobody but the mate, and he’s skipped the country. Well, I hope you find him, for the sake of the bereaved kinfolk.”
He turned a humourous and incredulous glance at Elliott, and its invitation to frankness was unmistakable. Had Elliott been alone in the affair he might have responded, and taken his companion as a partner. But he had not the right to do that; there were men enough to share the plunder already; but he was possessed with curiosity to learn what Sevier knew, and, above all, what he wanted. Sevier had learned nothing from Bennett; he could have learned nothing from the mate, else he would not be in pursuit of him. How then could he know what cargo the Clara McClay had carried?
They walked a little further, talking of the features of interest like a pair of Cook’s tourists, while the ricksha man marched stolidly behind.
“Queer that Burke didn’t know where she went down!” said Sevier, as if to himself.
“Who’s Burke?” asked Elliott, on the alert this time.