“Finis,” he said. “The rest is blank paper.”
“Well!” I will confess I felt much better than I had for some time past. “There’s one ‘mystery of the sea’ gone to pot, at any rate. And now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll have another of your nips, McCord.”
He pushed my glass across the table and got up, and behind his back his shoulder rose to scour the corners of the room, like an incorruptible sentinel. I forgot to take up my gin, watching him. After an uneasy minute or so he came back to the table and pressed the tip of a forefinger on the book.
“Ridgeway,” he said, “you don’t seem to understand. This particular ‘mystery of the sea’ hasn’t been scratched yet—not even scratched, Ridgeway.” He sat down and leaned forward, fixing me with a didactic finger. “What happened?”
“Well, I have an idea the ‘barbarian’ got them, when it came to the pinch.”
“And let the—remains over the side?”
“I should say.”
“And then they came back and got the ‘barbarian’ and let him over the side, eh? There were none left, you remember.”
“Oh, good Lord, I don’t know!” I flared with a childish resentment at this catechising of his. But his finger remained there, challenging.
“I do,” he announced. “The Chinaman put them over the side, as we have said. And then, after that, he died—of wounds about the head.”