Except for an occasional footstep on
the deck above, and the swift movements of the steward, nothing
interrupted my thoughts. After Louis had carried the last dishes into
his pantry, and run the table up on its stanchions, he also
disappeared, and in the silence I could hear the heavy breathing of the
sleeping mate. For the first time I comprehended clearly the entire
situation, and I could face it with understanding. Broussard's anger
had served me well, and it never occurred to me to doubt this story,
told under the inspiration of liquor. It dovetailed in with all I
previously knew.
The facts were clear. Philip Henley was dead, killed while
intoxicated, either accidentally, or for purposes of robbery. And he
had been robbed when picked up by the police, nothing to identify him
being found. Beyond doubt this half-breed brother had dispatched a man
North to look him up--possibly to assassinate him if necessary. The
fellow had either done the job, or been anticipated in his purpose. In
either case he was present to identify the body, and had written at
once, enclosing the signet ring as proof. That was the same ring we
had round in the arbor, and which Viola had instantly recognized. And
those men who had made a tool of me were the robbers.
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