"See if Jones is stirring," ordered Trevorrick, glancing at the clock on the bulkhead, which showed that it was twenty minutes past one in the morning. "If he is, bring him along."
In less than a couple of minutes the man returned, followed by the luckless Jasper Chamfer. The Admiralty inspector looked and probably felt an utter wreck. The after-effects of the anaesthetic, coupled with the confined atmosphere of his cell, would have capsized many a man of tougher fibre.
"Stand there," ordered Trevorrick curtly, at the same time motioning to the seaman to make himself scarce. "Unaccustomed surroundings, eh?"
"Where am I?" inquired Chamfer tremulously.
"As near as I can say, you're between ten and eleven fathoms beneath the surface of Falmouth Bay," announced his captor grimly. "But I haven't brought you here to ask me questions. I want information from you and—I'm—going—to—get—it."
He paused to let his words sink in.
"You poked your nose into our affairs. I'm going to probe into yours," continued Trevorrick.
"It was my duty."
"That's your affair. Now, tell me. I understand you're worth about thirty thousand pounds. Is that so? Well, I won't inquire, I'll assume. They say 'silence means consent.' That thirty thousand is an encumbrance. Already you're self-supporting, drawing a fat salary and doing precious little to earn it—doing it mightily badly, I might add. You'll have to disgorge: some of it, at least. How is that sum invested?"
Chamfer shook his head.