Thomas pulled out his trunk, unlocked it, threw back the
lid, and picked up an old leather box.
"Look at this, sir. It was my mother's. And I'd be a fine chap, would
I not, to let a drunken scoundrel steal it and get away with it."
It was a Neapolitan brooch, of pink coral, surrounded by small pearls.
Haggerty balanced it on his palm and appraised it at three or found
hundred dollars. He glanced casually into the leather box. Some faded
tin-types, some letters, a very old Bible, and odds and ends of a young
man's fancy: Haggerty shrugged. It looked as if he had stumbled into a
mare's-nest.
"He said you took money."
"He lied,"--tersely.
"Do y' want t' appear against him?"
"No. We sail at seven to-morrow. So long as he missed his shot, let
him go."
"Why didn't y' lodge a complaint against him?"
"I'm not familiar with your laws, Mr. Haggerty. So I took the matter
in my own hands."
"Don't do it again. Sorry t' trouble you. But duty's duty. An'
listen. Always play your game above board; it pays."
"Thanks.
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