“Have you made the investigation thoroughly, sir?”
“I think so—yes.”
“Then nothing is likely to be gained, Captain, by my asking any questions of a steward you have already questioned.”
The mate came back to report that Mr. Clodis 30 had been carried over the side, and that his baggage had been taken aboard the “Restless.”
“I know you don’t want a liner held up,” Tom went on, slipping Captain Hampton’s report of the accident into his pocket. “I’ll go over the side, sir, as soon as you can ascertain whether Mr. Clodis had any papers that ought to be sent ashore with him.”
“There are none in the injured man’s pockets,” replied the steamship’s sailing master, “and none were deposited with the purser. So, if there are any papers, they must be in Mr. Clodis’s trunk or bag.”
“Thank you, sir. Then I’ll bid you good-bye and hurry over the side,” said Halstead, energetically.
As they stepped out of the stateroom a passenger who had been lingering near stepped up.
“Oh, one moment,” said Captain Hampton, suddenly. “Captain Halstead, this gentleman is Mr. Arthur Hilton. Since leaving New York he has received some wireless news that makes him anxious to return. He wants to go ashore with you.”
Arthur Hilton had stepped forward, holding out his hand, which Tom took in his own. Mr. Hilton was a man of about thirty, smooth-faced, with firm set jaws. Though evidently not a Spaniard, he had the complexion usual to that 31 race. His dark eyes were keen and sharp, though they had a rather pleasant look in them. He was slender, perhaps five feet eight inches tall, and, although his waist and legs were thin, he had broad, rather powerful looking shoulders.