It was Drake. He had his gun. In that tiny cabin a gun in the hand meant mastery. Drake closed the door after him. His gun covered Cray. He disregarded the old captain. Indeed, old Bain hadn’t an ounce of trouble making left in him. He was a crushed man. Not one detective, but two! Not one man, who might conceivably be bribed, but two, each knowing his little immigrant game, and, what was worse, each knowing that the other knew. He slumped down on the single bunk. He stared from Cray to Drake, from Drake to Cray. He shook his gray head sadly.
Cray, snarling, turned on him.
“A hell of a captain! Don’t you see his game? His turn to hang on to them diamonds. He figures we’ll search his room next; likely found out I’d been searching it. He’s desperate.”
“And a strong man, Cray, which you are not.”
Drake reached out suddenly with his left hand, caught both Cray’s thin wrists, brought his hands together. Then with his right hand he laid his revolver on the bunk.
“Which you are not, Cray, my man,” said Drake.
The captain heard steel jingle, then saw it flash. He heard a faint click. Drake turned to him.
“We’ll adjourn to your cabin, Captain. This is a bit crowded.”
Glumly the old skipper obeyed. Cray stood there, handcuffed, silent now, as if with the snapping of the steel handcuffs had gone from him his last chance.
They stumbled out into the alleyway, Drake’s steady hand on Cray’s elbow. As Cray walked along, men eyed him. He scowled at the first; his face was blank as he passed a second. But when the third man stared, he smiled cockily. He was on parade and would be on parade until Drake and his kind had done their best, or worst. He must act out his part, confidence in every look, every gesture. That was his code; he would follow it.