"But there would ha' been if I hadn't took a look round while you were spinnin' your yarn to the Old Man," said Slade. "I knew you was a fool."
With a manner as of mild glee he passed his hand into the bosom of his coat, still keeping his sardonic gaze fixed on Conroy.
"Good thing you've got me to look after you," he went on. "Thinks I, 'He might easy make a mistake that 'ud cost him dear;' so I took a look round. An' I found this." From within his coat he brought forth an iron belaying-pin, and held it out to Conroy.
"See?" His finger pointed to it. "That's blood, that is—and that's hair. Look for yourself. Now I suppose you'll tell me you never touched him!"
"He hit his head against it when he fell," protested the younger man.
"He did! Oh, God, I can't stand this!"
He sank to a seat on one of the chests and leaned his face against the steel plate of the wall.
"Hit his head," snorted old Slade. "Couldn't you ha' fixed up a better yarn than that? What are you snivellin' at? D'ye think yer the only man 'as ever stove in a mate's head—an' him a murderin' mandriver? Keep them tales for the Old Man; he believes 'em seemingly; but don't you come them on me."
Conroy was moaning. "I never touched him; I never touched him!"
"Never touched him! Here, take the pin; it's yours!"
He shrank from it. "No, no!"