“You may as well be candid and open with me,” Onslow continued, “and tell me what you are driving at. If it suits me, I’ll say so; and if it doesn’t, I’ll let you know with surprising promptness. And again, if we don’t trade, you may rely on me not to gossip about your suggestion. I’m not the stone-throwing variety of animal. You see I live in a sort of semi-greenhouse myself.” There was a minute’s pause, during which Theodore Shelf shifted about as though his chair was uneven rock beneath him. Then he jerked out his tale sentence by sentence, squinting sideways at his companion between each period. “You know I’m a shipowner in a large way of business?” Onslow nodded. “Ships are occasionally lost at sea: steamers, even new steamers straight out of a builder’s yard, and well found in every particular.” “So I’ve read in the newspaper.” “And every shipowner insures his vessels to the full of their value.” “Except when he has a foreboding that they will come to grief on a voyage. Then, so rumor says, he usually has the forethought to over-insure.” Mr. Theodore Shelf passed a handkerchief over his forehead, and started what was apparently a new topic. “There is a silver crisis on just now in the United States, and by this morning’s paper the dollar is down at sixty cents. American gold is not to be had. English gold is always worth its face value. What more natural financial operation could there be than to ship out sovereigns, and profit by the discrepancy?” “Ah,” said Onslow, “so the new and valuable steamer, which, though over-insured, is likely to be reported lost, is evidently to have a consignment of specie on board. £500,000 I fancy you mentioned as the figure in the billiard-room this morning. Well, if one is going in for robbery—or piracy, I suppose it would turn out to be in this instance—there’s nothing like a large _coup_. It’s your niggler who usually fails, and gets laid by the heels. Drive on, and be a little more explicit.” “Couldn’t the steamer be lost somehow in the Gulf of Mexico, and a boat containing the boxes of specie find its way through this channel of yours into the interior of Florida?” “How—lost?” Mr. Shelf mopped his forehead again. “Don’t steamers,” he asked, “don’t they sometimes have sad accidents which—which cause them to blow up?” “Such things have been known. But it’s rather rough on the crew, don’t you think?” “Oh, poor fellows, yes. But a sailor’s life is always hazardous. Indeed, what can he expect with wages at their present ruinous rate? Shipowners must live.” “Oh, you beauty!” said Patrick Onslow. “I must ask you,” cried Shelf with a sudden burst of sourness, “to refrain from these comments, sir. But tell me, before I go any further in this confidence, am I to count upon your assistance?”