“Right!”
Cray crossed the threshold and slammed the door shut. Drake listened as he walked down the deck; he heard other footsteps. Out of the window he caught a glimpse of the captain’s gray head, then the boatswain, supporting a limp Quayle toward the stair.
“I wonder—” Drake frowned at the wireless set—“what’s their next move. And old M’Ginley—what’s he doing?”
Old M’Ginley, cutting loose cord after cord, breaking through wax seals, was opening that brown paper parcel.
What he found turned him into a covetous old man, who thought furiously. Finally, one hand fondling his pocket, he climbed heavily down ladders to his own peculiar domain.
Once more Cray faced the old skipper in his cabin.
“You saw that?” Bain was eager. He sensed, at last, the end of this mystery. “You saw that Drake and heard him howl about blabbing!”
“Yes,” Cray scoffed. “Heard a heap; but I’m not taking that for gospel.”
“It must be him. You found nothing in Quayle’s cabin?”
“Not yet,” Cray answered. “I’m figuring on looking again. Know what I think? They’re both in the theft, if not the murder. Take those names. Both birds’ names—Quayle and Drake—ain’t they? Sort of funny, them both choosing the same sort of monikers for this trip. Like one had thought of one, and the other had followed suit. Crooks are like that.”