“Do you think that–” she hesitated–“that he had it?”
Again Blake paused to consider.
“Well, I’m no alienist. I thought him a softy from the first. But that was all in line with what he was playing on us–British dude. Fooled me, and I’d been chumming with Jimmy Scarbridge,–and Jimmy was the straight goods, fresh imported–monocle even–when I first ran up against him. No; this–this Hawkins, if that’s his name, had brains all right. Still, he may have been cracked. When folks go dotty, they sometimes get extra ’cute. The best I can think of him is that losing his savings may have made him slip a cog, and then the scare over the way we landed here and his spells of fever probably hurried up the softening.”
“Then you believe his story?”
“Yes, I do. But if you’ll go, please.”
“One thing more–I must know now! Do you remember the day when you set up the signal, and you–you quarrelled with him?”
Blake reddened, and dropped his gaze. “Did he go and tell you that? The sneak!”
“If you please, let us say nothing more about him. But would you care to tell me what you meant–what you said then?”
Blake’s flush deepened; but he raised his head, and faced her squarely as he answered: “No; I’m not going to repeat any dead man’s talk; and as for what I said, this isn’t the time or place to say anything in that line–now that we’re alone. Understand?”
“I’m afraid I do not, Mr. Blake. Please explain.”