“The mate of the Clara McClay. Didn’t you know his name? I got it from the owners. They’re wild about him; swear they’ll have his certificate taken from him. It seems he hasn’t reported a word to them, and all they know is a newspaper item saying that he was picked up from the wreck.”
“Was all that in your cablegram?” demanded Elliott, with malice.
“They told me that in Philadelphia, before I left,” Sevier replied, imperturbably.
This was just possible, but, after a rapid mental calculation of dates, Elliott decided that it was unlikely. Besides, why should the owners have cabled, if they had seen their messenger just before he sailed? But he had already arrived at the conviction that Sevier’s explanation of his interest in the treasure-ship was as fictitious as his own.
“Isn’t it likely,” he said, easily, “that the mate was drunk and navigated her out of her course, and ran her ashore? He knows that he’s responsible for her loss, and he’s afraid to face a court of inquiry.”
“He’ll sure lose his certificate anyway, if he doesn’t show up. Besides, he didn’t run her ashore. She went down in deep water.”
“Sure enough, she went down in deep water,” Elliott acquiesced. A strong sense of the futility of this fencing stole over him, and he turned abruptly and beckoned to his ricksha.
“It’s too hot to walk. I’m going back to my hotel—the Anglo-Indian. Come around and look me up. Are you going to search for your lost mate?”
“Oh, dear, no! I’m not paid for doing that. Besides, I’m going up the country in a day or so to get stuff for my articles.”
He watched Elliott into his ricksha, and walked off, Elliott wondered vainly where.