“There is one man that knows.”
“Who is it?”
“Your old sky-pilot”
“You’re all wrong,” said Elliott. “Old Laurie, or Eaton, knows nothing at all about the thing. And I should like to know how in the world you came to take up his trail.”
“The same as you did, I expect,” replied Sevier, winking. “We went from Zanzibar up to Port Said, and waited there till we heard about the mate being picked up and going to Bombay. I went there too, as you know, having the honour to be your fellow passenger, but I never suspected you of being interested in the wreck—not at first.
“In Bombay I lost the trail, same as you did. But when I heard the American consul describe his man I made sure it couldn’t be the real mate. It was some fakir, and why should anybody fake the thing unless he was up to some game. It made me keener than ever. Lord! I worked like a slave in that accursed city. I searched every consulate, and the hotels and the boarding-houses. I found that a man answering my description had come to the Planters’ Hotel about the time the counterfeit mate turned up. I found that he had gone—sailed for Hongkong under a different name. I cabled Carlton, my partner, and we came here.
“It was you who helped us here. I spotted you on the street a week ago, had you followed to the Peak, and there you were, living hand in glove with my fakir. I went up there this morning, after learning that you had gone out, and I put the question straight to the white-headed old hypocrite. He went all to pieces, just as I expected, but he wouldn’t tell me anything. However, we have a way to force him.”
“Lost labour,” remarked Elliott, coolly. “He didn’t know even that the Clara McClay was loaded with gold.”
“Don’t you believe it!” said Sevier, leaning impressively across the table. “Elliott, that old parson is the slipperiest beggar between Africa and Oregon. I know all about his doings in the past. As like as not he murdered the mate himself—”
Elliott gave an exclamation of derision.