“You miserable scoundrel,” said the astonished Mr. Nugent, addressing the shrinking steward; “you infernal old reprobate—­you—­you—­I didn’t think you’d got it in you.”

“So far as I could make out,” said Mr. Smith, kindly, “Mr. Wilks was only obeying orders.  It was the cap’n’s plan, and Mr. Wilks was aboard ship with ‘im for a very long time.  O’ course, he oughtn’t to ha’ done it, but the cap’n’s a masterful man, an’ I can quite understand Mr. Wilks givin’ way; I dessay I should myself if I’d been in ’is place—­he’s all ’art, is Mr. Wilks—­no ’ead.”

“It’s a good job for you you’re an old man, Sam,” said Mr. Nugent.

“I can hardly believe it of you, Sam,” said Miss Nugent.  “I can hardly think you could have been so deceitful.  Why, we’ve trusted you all our lives.”

The unfortunate steward quailed beneath the severity of her glance.  Even if he gave a full account of the affair it would not make his position better.  It was he who had made all the arrangements with Mr. Smith, and after an indignant glance at that gentleman he lowered his gaze and remained silent.

“It is rather odd that my father should take you into his confidence,” said Miss Nugent, turning to the boarding-master.

“Just wot I thought, miss,” said the complaisant Mr. Smith; “but I s’pose there was nobody else, and he wanted ’is message to go for fear you should get worrying the police about ‘im or something.  He wants it kep’ quiet, and ’is last words to me as ’e left me was, ’If this affair gets known I shall never come back.  Tell ’em to keep it quiet.’”

“I don’t think anybody will want to go bragging about it,” said Jack Nugent, rising, “unless it is Sam Wilks.  Come along, Kate.”

Miss Nugent followed him obediently, only pausing at the door to give a last glance of mingled surprise and reproach at Mr. Wilks.  Then they were outside and the door closed behind them.

“Well, that’s all right,” said Mr. Smith, easily.

“All right!” vociferated the steward.  “Wot did you put it all on to me for?  Why didn’t you tell ’em your part in it?”

“Wouldn’t ha’ done any good,” said Mr. Smith; “wouldn’t ha’ done you any good.  Besides, I did just wot the cap’n told me.”

“When’s he coming back?” inquired the steward.

Mr. Smith shook his head.  “Couldn’t say,” he returned.  “He couldn’t say ‘imself.  Between you an’ me, I expect ’e’s gone up to have a reg’lar fair spree.”

“Why did you tell me last night he was up-stairs?” inquired the other.

“Cap’n’s orders,” repeated Mr. Smith, with relish.  “Ask ’im, not me.  As a matter o’ fact, he spent the night at my place and went off this morning.”

“An’ wot about the five pounds?” inquired Mr. Wilks, spitefully.  “You ain’t earned it.”

“I know I ain’t,” said Mr. Smith, mournfully.  “That’s wot’s worrying me.  It’s like a gnawing pain in my side.  D’you think it’s conscience biting of me?  I never felt it before.  Or d’ye think it’s sorrow to think that I’ve done the whole job too cheap You think it out and let me know later on.  So long.”