Brenchfield busied himself adjusting his leggings. Eileen put her hand on his arm.
“Did he get away, Mr. Brenchfield?” she asked again.
“Better finish the yarn, Graham!” said Royce Pederstone. “Eilie is like others of her sex; you can’t shake her once she gets a grip.”
“Well!” resumed Brenchfield uneasily, “as far as I can learn the man jumped out of the rowing boat as the launch came up on him. He tried to swim for it. He evidently knew how to swim, too;––but he was weak as a kitten. The detectives played him. When he was thoroughly exhausted, they let him sink.”
“The beasts!” exclaimed Eileen, her body aquiver with sudden anger.
“Guess I had better stop this stuff!” said Brenchfield.
“No, no! Don’t mind me. Go on!”
“He came up––and they let him sink again. Next time he came up, they fished him out, because he might not have come up again.
“The fellow came to after a bit. You see, that kind won’t kill. So I guess he is now safely back home, in his little eiderdown bed, getting fed with chicken broth;––home in Ukalla jail, where he belongs.