“I've got it!” he cried.
“And I'll name it,” Grief retorted, “It's in your mind that the Emily L. was their schooner?”
“Just that. They're raising and rotting the shell, while she's gone for more divers, or provisions, or both.”
“And I agree with you.” Grief glanced at the cabin clock and evinced signs of bed-going. “He's a sailor. The three of them are. But they're not island men. They're new in these waters.”
Again Snow whistled.
“And the Emily L. is lost with all hands,” he said. “We know that. They're marooned here till Swithin Hall comes. Then he'll catch them with all the shell.”
“Or they'll take possession of his schooner.”
“Hope they do!” Snow muttered vindictively. “Somebody ought to rob him. Wish I was in their boots. I'd balance off that sixty thousand.”