“That accounts for your trying to throw me overboard that night on the Vesta.”
“Yes. I was endeavoring to carry out my instructions.”
“Were the instructions oral or written?”
“Written. I had a letter in McCracken’s own handwriting.”
“Don’t that give you a hold upon him?”
“It would if I had kept it, but unfortunately I lost it on the steamer, I think.”
Bernard had the letter in his trunk at the hotel. He had always preserved it, thinking that some time he might find a use for it. Of course the professor didn’t know this.
“I reported your death,” continued Puffer. “I said you had been run over and fatally injured in Marseilles. I could see how much satisfaction this news afforded Mr. McCracken. He ascertained by cunning questions that I didn’t have his letter in my possession, and then he became cool and indifferent. ‘I am sorry for the boy’s death,’ he said. ‘He was young to die. I think you must have been careless.’ ‘I was only carrying out your instructions,’ I said. ‘What do you mean?’ he retorted. ‘I committed him to your charge. If I gave you any instructions, produce them.’
“This I couldn’t do, and he knew it.
“I represented to him that I was very poor, and needed help.