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What could he want to burn the ship's papers for? . . . Cloete sees all, the little drawers drawn out, and asks the coxswain to look well into them. . . There's nothing, says the man. Cleaned out. Seems to have pulled out all he could lay his hands on and set fire to the lot. Mad that's what it is went mad. And now he's dead. You'll have to break it to his wife. . .
But we are living, he says to Cloete; and I suppose, says he, glaring at him with hot, dry eyes, that you won't forget to wire in the morning to your friend that we are coming in for certain. . . "Meaning the patent-medicine fellow. . . Death is death and business is business, George goes on; and look my hands are clean, he says, showing them to Cloete. Cloete thinks: He's going crazy.
"Cloete opens his eyes. Yes. There's Stafford sitting close by him in that crowded life-boat. The coxswain stoops over Cloete and cries: Did you hear what the mate said, sir? . . . Cloete's face feels as if it were set in plaster, lips and all. Yes, I did, he forces himself to answer.
The merchant rose when I entered, and his eye rapidly running over me as if he would read my character at a glance, he put out his hand and led me to a seat. "You landed, I think, this morning, from a brig-of-war commanded by Captain Cloete," he began. "I have the pleasure, I conclude, of welcoming you for the first time to Java."
Oh yes unfortunately sorry to disappoint my brother made other arrangements going himself. "The fellow gets up, never raising his eyes off the ground, like a modest girl, and goes out softly, right out of the office without a sound. Cloete sticks his chin in his hand and bites all his fingers at once. George's heart slows down and he speaks to Cloete. . . This can't be done. How can it be?
It was, according to his account, a modest place of business, not shady in any sense, but out of the way, in a small street now rebuilt from end to end. "Seven doors from the Cheshire Cat public house under the railway bridge. I used to take my lunch there when my business called me to the city. Cloete would come in to have his chop and make the girl laugh. No need to talk much, either, for that.
"But next day he weakens and says to Cloete . . . Perhaps it would be best to sell. Couldn't you talk to my brother? and Cloete explains to him over again for the twentieth time why selling wouldn't do, anyhow. No! The Sagamore must be tomahawked as he would call it; to spare George's feelings, maybe.
"What do you mean? asks George. . . Wrecking it could be managed with perfect safety, goes on Cloete your brother would then put in his share of insurance money. Needn't tell him exactly what for. He thinks you're the smartest business man that ever lived.
And if you would like to give me a kiss for him, I'll deliver that too, dash me if I don't. "He makes Mrs. Harry laugh with his patter. . . Oh, dear Mr. Cloete, you are a calm, reasonable man. Make him behave sensibly. He's a bit obstinate, you know, and he's so fond of the ship, too. Tell him I am here looking on. . . Trust me, Mrs. Dunbar. Only shut that window, that's a good girl.
No shadow of suspicion could arise. And, dash it all! a ship must meet her end some day. . . "I am not frightened. I am indignant," says George Dunbar. "Cloete boiling with rage inside. Chance of a lifetime his chance! And he says kindly: Your wife'll be much more indignant when you ask her to get out of that pretty house of yours and pile in into a two-pair back with kids perhaps, too. . .
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