Louise turns a troubled face toward the owner of the yacht. “That I cannot say. It depends upon Mr. Felton. He has business interests to look after, and if the climate agrees with him we may remain several months.”
There is a silence for a little, the thoughts of both dwelling on the coming parting at even.
“Miss Hathaway,” says Van Zandt, suddenly. “I am but an idle fellow, with nothing to call me hence but my own inclinations. Would it be distasteful to you if I should attach myself to your party while in Cuba? The country is necessarily unsettled during the war and perhaps I might be of service. I am familiar with the Spanish language, which I believe Mr. Felton is not, and I should like to see something of the country. Please tell me frankly if for any reason I would be de trop?”
Van Zandt’s luminous orbs are fixed on the fair face of Louise as he awaits the answer to his question. For a moment her blue eyes return his gaze. Then the golden-fringed lids fall and a soft blush mantles her face.
“I certainly should not be averse to your joining our party,” she murmurs softly, “if—if it be your pleasure.”
“Thank you,” Van Zandt returns, simply, and a moment after Miss Hathaway retires to her stateroom.
“Well, Manada,” remarks Van Zandt, slapping the Cuban upon the back, “your first engagement as supercargo must be rated a success, eh? The arms and ammunition—the biggest single consignment ever sent from the States, I think you said—have been safely delivered into the hands of the insurgents, without the loss of a single Winchester or cartridge. Why this pensive look?”
“Only thoughts of the past, senor. I was—”
What were Don Manada’s thoughts will never be known, for the people on the yacht are electrified by the hail from the bridge, “Ship ahoy!” followed a second later by the additional information, “Dead ahead and bearing this way!”
“There is no special necessity for evading her now, whoever she is, I presume, sir?” inquires Capt. Beals, removing his glasses from his eyes.