“I'm sorry, Grief, damned sorry,” Griffiths said, “but I ain't got it. You'll have to give me a little more time.”
Grief leaned up against the companionway, surprise and pain depicted on his face.
“It does beat hell,” he communed, “how men learn to lie in the Solomons. The truth's not in them. Now take Captain Jensen. I'd sworn by his truthfulness. Why, he told me only five days ago—do you want to know what he told me?”
Griffiths licked his lips.
“Go on.”
“Why, he told me that you'd sold out—sold out everything, cleaned up, and was pulling out for the New Hebrides.”
“He's a damned liar!” Griffiths cried hotly.
Grief nodded.
“I should say so. He even had the nerve to tell me that he'd bought two of your stations from you—Mauri and Kahula. Said he paid you seventeen hundred gold sovereigns, lock, stock and barrel, good will, trade-goods, credit, and copra.”
Griffiths's eyes narrowed and glinted. The action was involuntary, and Grief noted it with a lazy sweep of his eyes.