He paused; then with the sure touch of one who has dabbled with pen and ink in the humanities, he laid his finger on the vulnerable spot.
“I was thinking more,” he said, “of what you had trusted him to do—telling certain persons, I mean, that you were not dead. He is just as likely as not to have suppressed the information.”
Jem Agar was looking very grave, with a sudden pinched appearance about the lips which was only half concealed by his moustache.
“Why should he do that?” he asked sharply.
“He would do it if it suited his purpose. He is not the man to take into consideration such things as feelings—especially the feelings of others.”
“You're a bit hard on him, Ruthine,” said Jem doubtfully. “Why should it suit his convenience?”
“Secrecy was essential for your purpose and his; in telling a secret one doubles the risk of its disclosure each time a new confidant is admitted. Besides, the man's nature is quite extraordinarily secretive. He has Jewish and Scotch blood in his veins, and the result is that he would rather disseminate false news than true on the off chance of benefiting thereby later on. For men of that breed each piece of accurate information, however trivial, has a marketable value, and they don't part with it unless they get their price.”
There followed a silence, during which Jem Agar went back in mental retrospection to the only interview he had ever had with Seymour Michael, and the old lurking sense of distrust awoke within his heart.
“But,” said the Captain, who was an optimist—he even applied that theory to human nature—“I suppose it is all right now. Everybody knows now that you are among the quick—eh?”
“No,” replied Jem, “only Michael; it was arranged that I should telegraph to him.”