Murgatroyd nodded silently—this was much more than he bargained for, and he did not know how much further it was going. And Prydale gave him a sudden searching look.
"Can you show us the counterfoil in this instance?" he asked.
Murgatroyd flushed. But he managed to get out a fairly quick reply. "No,
I can't," he answered, "I sent that book back at the end of the year."
"Oh, well—they'll have it at Liverpool," observed Prydale. "We can get at it there. Of course, they'll have your record of the entire transaction. He'd be down on their passenger list—under the name of Parsons, I think, Mr. Murgatroyd?"
"He gave me that name," said Murgatroyd.
Prydale gave Byner a look and both rose.
"I think that's about all," said the detective. "Of course, our next inquiry will be at Liverpool—-at the Royal Atlantic. Thank you, Mr. Murgatroyd—much obliged."
Before the watchmaker could collect himself sufficiently to say or ask more, Prydale and his companion had walked out of the shop and gone away. And then Murgatroyd realized that he was in for—but he did not know what he was in for. What he did know was that if Prydale went or sent over to Liverpool the whole thing would burst like a bubble. For the Royal Atlantic people would tell the detectives at once that no passenger named Parsons had sailed under their auspices on November 24th last, and that he, Murgatroyd, had been telling a pack of lies.
Mrs. Murgatroyd, a sharp-featured woman whose wits had been sharpened by a ten years' daily acquaintance with poverty, came out of the shop into the parlour and looked searchingly at her husband.
"What did them fellows want?" she demanded. "I knew one of 'em—Prydale, the detective. Now what's up, Reuben? More trouble?"