Cray, running in from Drake’s cabin, saw a velvet covered case, long, narrow, bound with precious metal.
The captain laughed in relief.
“Got our man.”
“Where—where’d you find that?”
“There!” The captain kicked a disreputable handbag. “In the lining, sewn in. I felt it, first shot. Now—”
“Open it, open it,” Cray urged. “Let’s see.”
“It’s locked some way; but—”
Old Bain’s strong fingers wrapped themselves about the slim thing of metal and velvet. The cords of his wrists stood out for a moment. Then the case was open, cracked like a walnut shell. It was empty. The captain glared at the fragments in his hands. Cray, leaning closer, muttered:
“Never mind. Hang on to that. It’s evidence, ain’t it? Quayle—he’ll tell more, when them detectives get after him. He’ll talk. Man can shorten his stretch that way. Unless—” he thrust his face close to the captain’s —“unless we find them diamonds, ourselves. Then, this’d do for Quayle; they’d take him on the strength of this. And we’d—”
“To hell with the diamonds!” In the old skipper’s voice was relief. “This’ll do for me. You keep your gab shut, mister. The least you know the best, I’ve got Quayle locked in my cabin. He’ll stay there. If trouble comes aboard, it comes for him, personal. Not me, nor you, if you’re wise. You stop snooping round for them diamonds. I won’t have it, I tell you. First thing there’ll be a murder—another murder.”