“Well, connected with that miserable affair of the missing money.”
“O—oh,” said Dixon, looking still more keenly at the motor boat skipper.
“I knew,” pursued Tom Halstead, “that I didn’t take the money. For that reason, I suppose, I wondered if you were the one who had taken it? Lately, I have had reason to see how absurd such a suspicion would be.”
“What reason?” demanded Oliver Dixon, his eyes almost blazing into Tom Halstead’s face.
“Why, from Mr. Tremaine I’ve gleaned the idea that you’re so comfortably well off in this world’s goods that taking his few thousands of dollars would be an utter absurdity for you. So the vanishing of that money is back to its old footing of an unexplainable mystery.”
“Did you say anything to Henry Tremaine about your suspicion?” inquired Dixon, looking searchingly at the boy.
“No,” retorted Tom Halstead, curtly. “I had only my suspicion of the moment—no proof. I always try to play fair—and I’m glad I did.”
The companionway door was being opened below. The ladies were ready to come up on deck.
Oliver Dixon held out his hand, as though by strong impulse.
“Halstead, you’re a brick!” he exclaimed. “You’re the right sort of young fellow. I don’t mind your first suspicion, since you realize how groundless it was. We shall be better friends, after this. Your hand!”