The captain gazed at him speculatively.
“Cray—crayfish—another zoölogical name. Well, go on. You don’t pass as an honest man, Cray. Lay to that. You’re no better, if no worse, than the rest aboard this packet. What were you going to say?”
“I got an idea they been passing that necklace from one to t’other,” Cray explained. “They had hard words. What if Quayle had it last, after I searched his dump? What if he wouldn’t hand over, an’ Drake—I been working on him, scaring him—if Drake, I say, figured Quayle was goin’ to gyp him? How about that? Mebbe Quayle ain’t scared of getting caught. I searched his dump careful. He may figure he ain’t suspected no more. He may think, if he is suspected, that we don’t know how to search right. And Drake, figurin’ he’s losin’ out, gets mad.”
The captain shook his head. Father Point was getting closer. Morning and the pilot would come, and with them—well, iron bars, perhaps; certainly a lost ticket and a lot of trouble. A man couldn’t account for three extra men on his ship—and such men.
“I don’t know. If we miss this time—” He paused.
“We’ll search both cabins,” Gray broke in, “and both at once. You take Quayle’s; I’ll go for Drake’s. We’ll win this time.”
The captain stared at him.
“We’ll do it; but how?”
“Easy,” Cray smiled. “That worthless old chief engineer—let him tag on to Drake. They are thick, anyway. As for Quayle—he’s battered up, ain’t he? Or if he ain’t exactly battered, he’s shook. Take a couple of men, drag him out, say you’re givin’ him your room, more light an’ air. Sure, he’ll suspect, but what can he do? Take them two big sailormen.”
“It might be; but when? Drake sticks below of afternoons.”