‘My dear fellow, what a fuss you make about such a paltry accusation. Why, if I had said you murdered him you couldn’t look more indignant.’
‘Enough!’ exclaimed Egerton with an oath. ‘You have not come here to talk about Ralph Egerton.’
‘Indeed I have!’ said Marston. ‘And be civil, if you can, for I’ve come to do you a service. You’re a careless fellow, to leave a confession of murder kicking about on the sea.’
Egerton leapt to his feet and seized Marston by the arm. His face was a deathly white, and his lips trembled, while great beads of perspiration stood upon his brow.
‘Hush!’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Not so loud. What do you mean?’
‘Lord, man! what’s the matter? You don’t think I’m going to round on you, do you? I only want you to do me a favour, and I’ll do you one in return. I have in my possession your written confession of the murder of your cousin, signed by you. You wrote it when the Bon Espoir was sinking—and I have it.’
‘The sea has given up her dead!’ cried Egerton, starting back, his face distorted with terror.
‘It has,’ said Marston quietly. ‘Your life is in my hands. Come, you were going to play me a scurvy trick. I’ll return good for evil. This confession is in my hands. Do what I ask you, and you shall have it and tear it up.’
‘Name your terms,’ groaned Egerton, sinking into a chair and burying his face in his hands. ‘I am at your mercy.’
‘My terms are simple. Come with me now to Heckett’s and make him swear not to betray me. I know the plot between you. I am not so easily fooled as you think. Come and do this, and I will place the confession in your hands.’