“How could I,” demanded Jeffreys, “with the tide racing down and me alone on the station? I’d never have got back.”
“But what about the boat, Jeffreys? Why did you scuttle her?”
“The fact is,” replied Jeffreys, “I got in a funk, and I thought the simplest plan was to send her to the cellar and know nothing about it. But I never shoved him over. It was an accident, sir; I swear it!”
“Well, that sounds a reasonable explanation,” said the captain. “What do you say, doctor?”
“Perfectly reasonable,” replied Thorndyke, “and, as to its truth, that is no affair of ours.”
“No. But I shall have to take you off, Jeffreys, and hand you over to the police. You understand that?”
“Yes, sir, I understand,” answered Jeffreys.
“That was a queer case, that affair on the Girdler,” remarked Captain Grumpass, when he was spending an evening with us some six months later. “A pretty easy let off for Jeffreys, too—eighteen months, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was a very queer case indeed,” said Thorndyke. “There was something behind that ‘accident,’ I should say. Those men had probably met before.”
“So I thought,” agreed the captain. “But the queerest part of it to me was the way you nosed it all out. I’ve had a deep respect for briar pipes since then. It was a remarkable case,” he continued. “The way in which you made that pipe tell the story of the murder seems to me like sheer enchantment.”