“You are labouring under a mistake, sir,” said the man. “We have not found him—yet. My people are searching still, and half the fishermen are out in their boats, but they say it is not likely that they will find him till after a tide or two, when he will be cast ashore.”
The words sounded hard and brutal, and Luke gave the speaker a furious look as he saw his brother wince.
“Why have you come here, then?” said Uncle Luke, harshly. “Do you think he has not suffered enough?”
The officer made no reply, but stood, notebook in hand, thinking. Then sharply:
“A person named Pradelle has been staying here.”
“Yes,” said Uncle Luke, with a snap of his teeth; “and if you had taken him instead of hunting down our poor boy you would have done some good.”
“All in good time, sir. I expect he was at the bottom of it all. Have you any information you can give me as to where he is likely to have gone?”
“Where do all scoundrels and thieves go to hide? London, I suppose.”
“I expected that,” said the officer, talking to Uncle Luke, but watching George Vine’s drawn, grief-stricken face the while. “I dare say we shall be able to put a finger upon him before long. He does not seem to have a very good record, and yet you gentlemen appear to have given him a welcome here.”
George Vine made a deprecating movement with his hands, the detective watching him keenly the while, and evidently hesitating over something he had to say.