“You may have heard,” stated Bronston, “that we are a detective and a prisoner. I believe there has been talk to that effect on board here for the past day or two.”
The first officer—his name was Watts—nodded to indicate that such rumours had come to his ears.
“Very well, then,” went on Bronston; “my [450] man here will probably claim he is being kidnapped. That is his last hope.” He smiled at this. “He tried to get away from me a bit ago. We had a tussle. The steward here heard us struggling. I overpowered him and ironed him. Now, for reasons best known to himself, I apprehend that he will claim that he is really the detective and that I am really the prisoner. Will you kindly look at us both and tell me, in your opinion, which is which?”
Dispassionately, judicially, First Officer Watts considered the pair facing him, while curious spectators crowded together in a semicircle behind him and a thickening stream of other first-cabin passengers poured in from off the deck, jostling up closely to feast their gaping eyes upon so sensational an episode. It took the young Englishman only a moment or two to make up his mind; a quick scrutiny was for him amply sufficient. For one of these men stood at ease; well set up, confident, not noticeably rumpled as to attire or flustered as to bearing. But the other: His coat was bunched up on his back, one trouser leg was pulled half way up his shin; his mussed hair was in his eyes; his cap was over one ear; his eyes undoubtedly had a most wild and desperate look; from his mouth came vain words and ravings. Finally there were those handcuffs. Handcuffs, considered as such, may not signify guilt, yet somehow they typify it. So far as First Officer Watts was concerned those handcuffs clinched [451] the case. To his understanding they were prima facie evidence, exceedingly plausible and highly convincing. Promptly he delivered his opinion. It was significant that, in so doing, he addressed Bronston and ignored Keller:
“I’m bound to say, sir, the appearances are in favour of you. But there should be other proof, don’t you think—papers or something?”
“Certainly,” agreed Bronston. He drew a red leather wallet from his own breast-pocket and handed it over to Watts. Then, working deftly, he extracted half a dozen letters and a sheaf of manuscript notes from an inner pocket of Keller’s coat and tendered them for examination; which crowning indignity rendered Keller practically inarticulate with madness. Watts scanned these exhibits briefly, paying particular attention to a formal-looking document which he drew from the red wallet.
“These things seem to confirm what you say,” was his comment. He continued, however, to hold the written and printed testimony in his hands. He glanced at the impressive document again. “Hold on; this description of the man who is wanted says he has a moustache?”
“Oh, I’m going to offer you other proof, plenty of it,” Bronston promised, cutting in on Keller, who grew more incoherently vocal with each moment. “Would you be so good as to send for the ship’s barber?”
[452]
“Bring the barber!” ordered Watts of a wide-eyed cabin boy.
“This steward has served us since we came aboard,” went on Bronston, indicating Lawrence. “Now, my man, I want you to tell the truth. Which of us two seemed to be in charge on the night you first saw us—the night we came aboard—this man or I?”