"A reason?" says Raikes, starting as he met the other's look. "What reason?"
"That!" says Mr. Tawnish, and tossed something to Sir Harry's feet.
Now as it lay there upon the sand, I saw that it was a small gold locket. For maybe a full minute there was a dead silence, while Raikes stared down at the locket, and Mr. Tawnish took a pinch of snuff.
"Who gave you this?" says Raikes suddenly, and in a strange voice.
Mr. Tawnish flicked-to the enamelled lid of his snuff-box very delicately with one white finger.
"I took it," says he, blandly, "from a poor devil who sat shivering in his shirt."
"You!" says Raikes, in so low a tone as to be almost a whisper—"you?"
"I," returned Mr. Tawnish, with a bow.
"Liar!" says Raikes, in the same dangerously suppressed murmur.
"As to that," says Mr. Tawnish, shrugging his shoulders, "I will leave you to judge for yourself, sir."