“Seven fifty?” asked the doctor, squinting. A sudden suspicion laid hold of him as he eyed the slender pile of bills. With crooked fingers he ran them over. “Why, there’s not—h-m! h-m!” he checked himself.
“Eh? What’s that, sir?” asked the captain, drowsy already.
“Nothing, sir,” answered Filhiol. “I was just going to say there’s not many as well fixed as you are, captain. Even though your cash is low, you’ve got a pretty comfortable place here.”
“Yes, yes, it’s pretty snug,” sleepily assented Briggs. “And now that Hal’s coming back, I’m happy. A few dollars—they don’t matter, eh?”
Hastily Filhiol counted the bills. Only a matter of about two hundred and twenty-five dollars remained. As in a flash the old doctor comprehended everything.
“Tss! Tss!” clucked the doctor, going a shade paler. But he said no more.
He closed the safe and put the combination back into the desk-drawer. For a moment he stood leaning on his cane, peering down at the captain, who was already going to sleep. Then he shook his head, grief and rage on his face.
“God!” he was thinking. “Robbery! On top of everything else, downright robbery! This will certainly kill the old man! What black devil is in that boy anyhow? What devil out of hell?”
He paused a moment, looking with profound compassion at the tired old captain. Then he limped out of the room, and made his way to the galley, bent on having speech with Ezra.