What could be his special motive, and who was the object of his attentions? The captain felt quite easy as regarded himself, for he had always been very careful to avoid adding to his perquisites in so clumsy a manner as to lead to unpleasant inquiries. His transaction with Mr. Torrens was the first for which he felt the law might have a legitimate grip upon him. But as the steward had evidently been officiating as spy, or detective, whichever he might like to call himself, before the occurrence of the little scene just alluded to, it was clear that this was not the cause of the stranger’s presence on board. His motive must be anterior to the division of the spoil. Yet that it had something to do with the flight of Mr. Torrens, and the abduction of the said spoil, Captain Cochrane felt morally convinced.
Now, had the pursuit and discovery of a diamond thief involved no loss or danger to himself, the skipper of the “Merry Maid” would not have felt very much concern. But the events of the last few days had materially altered his notions on the subject. For, whereas he would formerly have felt it incumbent upon him to lend his aid in the cause of right and justice, he now felt his own safety involved in the maintenance of Mr. Torrens’s desire to do what he liked with what was left of the proceeds of his venture.
For was he not an accessory after the fact? And had he not in his own possession a very handsome share of the plunder? Detection and exposure of Torrens meant loss, disgrace, and imprisonment for Captain Cochrane.
“Having gone so far,” he said, clenching his teeth, and looking very grim about the eyes, “I will go on to the bitter end. I won’t allow any man to foil me, if I can help it. This William Trace, as he calls himself, came here at his own risk, and on his head be it if he does not find his way home again.”
The next morning, or, rather, at eight o’clock the same morning, there was considerable speculation in the minds of two of the individuals in the cabin of the “Merry Maid.” One of them was the steward, who was, to the best of his ability, attending to the wants of those at the breakfast table. But though he was keenly observant of the captain’s manner, there was nothing in it that could lead him to suppose his secret to have been betrayed. Nay, the captain was even more forbearing than usual, and had nothing to say anent the sloppy nature of the dry hash, or the extraordinary mixture dignified by the name of curried lobster.
Altogether, breakfast passed over pretty quietly, and Hilton Riddell, alias William Trace, began to feel more comfortable in his mind. Further espionage he did not think necessary to go in for, as he had already learned enough to prove his case. If only the ship could be made to accelerate her speed, and arrive quicker at Malta. He could then disburthen himself of the immense responsibility which weighed upon him. Meanwhile, the best thing he could do was to endeavour to give satisfaction as steward, in order to lead as peaceful a life as possible while on board.
After breakfast, the captain requested Mr. Torrens to accompany him to the chart-room, as he had something he wanted to show him there.
“Certainly; any blessed thing for a change,” said the passenger. “I should feel inclined to blow my brains out if I had to put up with this stagnation long. How on earth you fellows stand the monotony, I don’t know.”
“Well, you see,” was the captain’s reply, as the two were crossing the poop deck together, “we are used to the life, and, what’s more, we like it. But that is not what I want to talk to you about just now. I have something to tell you that will astonish you. Ah! there he goes. Do you know that fellow? I mean the one who has just gone along to the galley.”
“Of course I know him. He is the steward.”