“An’ if a man gets struck with that kind o’ woman, Mr. Hooper?” Pritchard went on.
“He goes crazy—or just saves himself,” was the slow answer.
“You’ve hit it,” said the Sergeant. “You’ve seen an’ known somethin’ in the course o’ your life, Mr. Hooper. I’m lookin’ at you!” He set down his bottle.
“And how often had Vickery seen her?” I asked.
“That’s the dark an’ bloody mystery,” Pyecroft answered. “I’d never come across him till I come out in the Hierophant just now, an’ there wasn’t any one in the ship who knew much about him. You see, he was what you call a superior man. ’E spoke to me once or twice about Auckland and Mrs. B. on the voyage out. I called that to mind subsequently. There must ’ave been a good deal between ’em, to my way o’ thinkin’. Mind you I’m only giving you my sum of it all, because all I know is second-hand so to speak, or rather I should say more than second-’and.”
“How?” said Hooper peremptorily. “You must have seen it or heard it.”
“Yes,” said Pyecroft. “I used to think seein’ and hearin’ was the only regulation aids to ascertainin’ facts, but as we get older we get more accommodatin’. The cylinders work easier, I suppose…. Were you in Cape Town last December when Phyllis’s Circus came?”
“No—up country,” said Hooper, a little nettled at the change of venue.
“I ask because they had a new turn of a scientific nature called ‘Home and Friends for a Tickey.’”
“Oh, you mean the cinematograph—the pictures of prize-fights and steamers. I’ve seen ’em up country.”