“All ships? No, not this time. The search has narrowed down,” Cray grated. “This one is:
“Ships outward bound, Beverstock. Man aboard you. Hold him.”
“Which means—” The skipper of the luckless Cora waited.
“Us!” Cray’s face was tense. “Scotland Yard—they’ve got a line on us; they’re closing in on their man.”
“And when—when some detective comes up the ladder— We’re nigh into St. Lawrence Gulf—” the Old Man stared out of the grimy port—“When the showdown comes.”
“Never such a ship for secrets as this,” Cray said. “They’ll come for one. They’ll find a heap.”
“You, for instance,” the captain suggested.
“Sure, me an’ you. Think I’m sweating over this just for fun? Think I give a damn if they get their man? Me? Hell, no! I got my reasons; so have you. They’ll come aboard with the pilot, maybe. They’ll begin poking round. Unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Unless the man’s ready for them. Then, it’s a pat on the back and a clean bill of health for you; and, ‘Thanks, my noble radio man; your message was music to our honest ears,’ for me.” Cray stopped.