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.
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