“You think that Bennett killed the poor fellow?” the skipper said, between long reflective puffs at his cigar.
“I certainly believe he is the murderer,” was the other’s reply. “But at present we can charge them with nothing. We have no tangible evidence of a crime.”
“The girl—what’s her name—could tell you sufficient to gaol the lot of ’em,” was Job Seal’s rejoinder. “She knows all about it. The dead man was her lover without a doubt.”
“I could recognize the victim if I saw his photograph,” Reilly declared. “I’ll never forget that ghastly white face till my dying day.”
“I wonder where they disposed of the body?” I queried. “We must keep our eyes on the papers for any discovery. If they left it at a cloak-room it must be found sooner or later.”
What Reilly had related gave the skipper of the Thrush evident satisfaction.
“You’ve got the best side o’ them swabs, Mr. Reilly, if you’re only careful. They’re in ignorance of what you’ve seen. Excellent! All you do now is to wait; but in the meantime be very careful that these men don’t get the better of you.”
“I can’t imagine how the Mysterious Man could have given us that warning,” I remarked, afterwards explaining to Seal the words that the madman had written: “Beware of Black Bennett!”
“Ah!” exclaimed the skipper, “there’s no tellin’ what Old Mister Mystery knows. He’s a son of Davy Jones himself, I really believe.”
“You hold the old fellow in superstitious dread, captain,” I laughed.