H. Bedford-Jones

“ So this chap Garven lied about it. Nobody knows much what Ormsby looked like, but this thing gave his game away."
The purser whistled at this. "Bully! And you're wangling him on the strength of it. But look here, what d'you expect to get out of it? S'pose you and me go down there and arrest the blighter for the murder of your brother, what?"
"Cool down and open another bottle of beer," said Manning. "And shut off that electric fan. Being a purser and at one time a naval brigade officer, it's natural you should have no brains. We'll try and instruct you." ”

“ I don't call that a good country; I call it beastly! I read a little something about the details, but not very much. Those two chaps who murdered each other, I mean—or one of them murdered the other, which was it? ”

“ Garven gulped a little, lifted his glass mechanically. The purser cursed his own empty glass, noisily summoned the boy, and presently began to talk again.
"This feller—name was Ormsby, understand?—had a thing he took off the man he murdered. Don't understand myself. Something partic'lar, it was. Jade or something. And today or tonight, sometime, he got talking with somebody, and this other chap saw this thing, and popped on to the game, right-o! Police chap, this chap was, understand. Damned complicated thing to talk 'bout. Oh, yes! I remember now. ”