“It was—oh, the Royal Atlantic!” he answered at last. “I’ve an agency for them.”
“So I noticed from the bills and placards in your window,” observed the detective. “And of course you issue these tickets on their paper—I’ve seen ’em before. You fill up particulars on a form and a counterfoil, don’t you? And you send a copy of those particulars to the Royal Atlantic offices at Liverpool?”
Murgatroyd nodded silently—this was much more than he bargained for, and he did not know how much further it was going. And Prydale gave him a sudden searching look.
“Can you show us the counterfoil in this instance?” he asked.
Murgatroyd flushed. But he managed to get out a fairly quick reply. “No, I can’t,” he answered, “I sent that book back at the end of the year.”
“Oh, well—they’ll have it at Liverpool,” observed Prydale. “We can get at it there. Of course, they’ll have your record of the entire transaction. He’d be down on their passenger list—under the name of Parsons, I think, Mr. Murgatroyd?”
“He gave me that name,” said Murgatroyd.
Prydale gave Byner a look and both rose.
“I think that’s about all,” said the detective. “Of course, our next inquiry will be at Liverpool—at the Royal Atlantic. Thank you, Mr. Murgatroyd—much obliged.”
Before the watchmaker could collect himself sufficiently to say or ask more, Prydale and his companion had walked out of the shop and gone away. And then Murgatroyd realized that he was in for—but he did not know what he was in for. What he did know was that if Prydale went or sent over to Liverpool the whole thing would burst like a bubble. For the Royal Atlantic people would tell the detectives at once that no passenger named Parsons had sailed under their auspices on November 24th last, and that he, Murgatroyd, had been telling a pack of lies.
Mrs. Murgatroyd, a sharp-featured woman whose wits had been sharpened by a ten years’ daily acquaintance with poverty, came out of the shop into the parlour and looked searchingly at her husband.
“What did them fellows want?” she demanded. “I knew one of ’em—Prydale, the detective. Now what’s up, Reuben? More trouble?”
Murgatroyd hesitated a moment. Then he told his wife the whole story concealing nothing.
“If they go to the Royal Atlantic, it’ll all come out,” he groaned. “I couldn’t make any excuse or explanation—anyhow! What’s to be done?”
“You should ha’ had naught to do wi’ that Pratt!” exclaimed Mrs. Murgatroyd. “A scoundrelly fellow, to come and tempt poor folk to do his dirty work! Where’s the money?”
“Locked up!” answered Murgatroyd. “I haven’t touched a penny of it. I thought I’d wait a bit and see if aught happened. But he assured me it was all right, and you know as well as I do that a hundred pound doesn’t come our way every day. We want money!”
“Not at that price!” said his wife. “You can pay too much for money, my lad! I wish you’d told me what that Pratt was after—he should have heard a bit o’ my tongue! If I’d only known—”
Just then the shop door opened, and Pratt walked in. He at once saw Murgatroyd and his wife standing between shop and parlour, and realized at a glance that his secret in this instance was his no longer.
“Well?” he said, walking up to the watchmaker. “You’ve had Prydale here—and you’d Eldrick this morning. Of course, you knew what to say to both?”
“I wish we’d never had you here last night, young man!” exclaimed Mrs. Murgatroyd fiercely. “What right have you to come here, making trouble for folk that’s got plenty already? But at any rate, ours was honest trouble. Yours is like to land my husband in dishonesty—if it hasn’t done so already! And if my husband had only spoken to me—”
“Just let your husband speak a bit now,” interrupted Pratt, almost insolently. “It’s you that’s making all the trouble or noise, anyhow! There’s naught to fuss about, missis. What’s upset you, Murgatroyd?”
“They’re going to the Royal Atlantic people,” muttered the watchmaker. “Of course, it’ll all come out, then. They know that I never booked any Parsons—nor anybody else for that matter—last November. You should ha’ thought o’ that!”
Pratt realized that the man was right. He had never thought of that—never anticipated that inquiry would go beyond Murgatroyd. But his keen wits at once set to work.
“What’s the system?” he asked quickly. “Tell me—what’s done when you book anybody like that? Come on!—explain, quick!”
Murgatroyd turned to a drawer and pulled out a book and some papers. “It’s simple enough,” he said. “I’ve this book of forms, d’ye see? I fill up this form—sort of ticket or pass for the passenger, and hand it to him—it’s a receipt as well, to him. Then I enter the same particulars on that counterfoil. Then I fill up one of these papers, giving just the same particulars, and post it at once to the Company with the passage money, less my commission. When one of these books is finished, I return the counterfoils to Liverpool—they check ’em. Prydale’s up to all that. He asked to see the counterfoil in this case. I had to say I hadn’t got it—I’d sent it to the Company. Of course, he’ll find out that I didn’t.”
“Lies!” said Mrs. Murgatroyd, vindictively. “And they didn’t start wi’ us neither!”
“Who was that other man with Prydale?” asked Pratt.
“London detective, I should say,” answered the watchmaker. “And judging by the way he watched me, a sharp ’un, too!”
“What impression did you get—altogether?” demanded Pratt.
“Why!—that they’re going to sift this affair—whatever it is—right down to the bottom!” exclaimed Murgatroyd. “They’re either going to find Parrawhite or get to know what became of him. That’s my impression. And
