Hardy grunted. “If the captain isn't in London, where is he?” he inquired.
The other shook his head. “I've got an idea,” he replied, “but I want to make sure. Kybird and Smith are old friends, as Nugent might have known, only he was always too high and mighty to take any interest in his inferiors. There's something for you to go on.”
He bent over his desk again and worked steadily until one o'clock—his hour for lunching. Then he put on his hat and coat, and after a comfortable meal sallied out in search of Mr. Smith.
The boarding-house, an old and dilapidated building, was in a bystreet convenient to the harbour. The front door stood open, and a couple of seamen lounging on the broken steps made way for him civilly as he entered and rapped on the bare boards with his stick. Mr. Smith, clattering down the stairs in response, had some difficulty in concealing his surprise at the visit, but entered genially into a conversation about the weather, a subject in which he was much interested. When the ship-broker began to discuss the object of his visit he led him to a small sitting-room at the back of the house and repeated the information he had given to Mr. Wilks.
“That's all there is to tell,” he concluded, artlessly; “the cap'n was that ashamed of hisself, he's laying low for a bit. We all make mistakes sometimes; I do myself.”
“I am much obliged to you,” said Mr. Swann, gratefully.
“You're quite welcome, sir,” said the boarding-master.