"It's all lies, you know," muttered Murgatroyd.
"Nobody can find 'em out, anyway," replied Pratt. "That's the one important thing to consider. You're safe! And if you're cursed with a conscience and it's tender—well, that'll make a good plaister for it!"
He pointed to the little wad of bank-notes—and the man sitting at his side followed the pointing finger with hungry eyes. Murgatroyd wanted money badly. His business, always poor, was becoming worse: his shipping agency rarely produced any result: his rent was in arrears: he owed money to his neighbour-tradesmen: he had a wife and young children. To such a man, a hundred pounds meant relief, comfort, the lifting of pressure.
"You're sure there's naught wrong in it, Mr. Pratt," he asked abruptly and assiduously. "It 'ud be a bad job for my family if anything happened to me, you know."
"There's naught that will happen," answered Pratt confidently. "Who on earth can contradict you? Who knows what people you sell passages to—but yourself?"
"There's the folks themselves," replied Murgatroyd. "Suppose Parrawhite turns up?"
"He won't!" exclaimed Pratt.
"You know where he is?" suggested Murgatroyd.
"Not exactly," said Pratt, "But—he's left this country for another—further off than America. That's certain! And—the folks I referred to don't want any inquiry about him here."
"If I am asked questions—later—am I to say he booked in his own name?" inquired Murgatroyd.