insisted Hardy with breathless interest.
"I thought you'd got wind of that. That drowning."
"Drowning! Who? Where?"
"We all thought there was something crooked about it."
"Let's have it, man, quick!" Thought of the telltale lifeboat had instantly flashed across Hardy's brain.
"Well, I swear I thought you'd 'a heard of that by this time," the operator went on. "It was this way. A couple of weeks ago when the Commodore's yacht was lying here in the Sound to take on some local capitalists he was going to carry down to Mexico to look into those oil fields, there happened what looked like a pretty serious accident. The night before the boat planned to steam out was dark as tarred pitch. Now, it seems Hatton had a Dago or Greaser or some such cuss on board who could speak Spanish—s'posed to be taken along as an interpreter. Well, this night the fellow insisted on going ashore for one reason or the other; had to mail an important letter or send a telegram—some trumped-up excuse."
