“I believe I have had the misfortune of meeting you before,” Van Zandt replies, folding his arms and regarding the other with blazing eyes.
The Spanish captain shrugs his shoulders. “May I ask where?” he inquires coolly.
“In the United States.”
“The senor is mistaken. I have never been in the states.”
“You lie!”
“Curse you! What d’ye mean?” demands the Spanish captain in the purest of English, as he drops his hand upon his sword hilt. The man at the table near by lays down his paper and turns a pair of interested eyes toward the young men.
“You lie!” repeats Van Zandt, moving not a step. Then he says in a voice passionate with hatred and ringing with the exultation of a Nemesis about to strike:
“So, Ralph Felton, I have found you at last!”