It was the olive-hued man of the cellar, the one
I had picked as leader, and his teeth gleamed white in an effort to
smile. In spite of his skin and dark eyes, I could not guess at his
nationality, but felt an instinctive dislike to him, more deeply rooted
than before, now that I comprehended how completely I was in his power.
"Take a seat, Craig," he said, speaking with a faint accent barely
perceptible. "The second chair will be found the more comfortable.
Now we can talk easily. May I offer you a cigarette?"
I accepted it more to exhibit my own coolness than from any desire to
smoke, but without other response. The man had sent for me for some
specific purpose, and I desired to learn what that might be before
unmasking my own batteries.
"A smoke generally leaves me in more genial humor," he continued,
ignoring my reticence. "Mere habit, of course, but we are all more or
less in slavery to the weed. I trust you have been fairly comfortable
since coming on board the _Sea Gull_."
"As much so as a prisoner could naturally expect to be," I replied
indifferently. "This vessel then is the _Sea Gull_?"
He bowed, with an expressive gesticulation of the hand.
"At present--yes. In days gone by it has been found convenient to call
her the _Esmeralda_, the _Seven Sisters_, and the _Becky N_.
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