"What virtue—what righteous indignation!" sneered the mate. "But, captain, you will have to listen to me. Whether you wish it or no, you shall make a fortune in the way I am going to suggest."
There was a menace in the man's tone and a malicious twinkle in his eyes.
Carew looked at him. "Explain yourself, if you please," he said coldly.
"So I will," cried Baptiste, with energy, abandoning his lazy drawl. Then, throwing away his cigarette, he rose from his recumbent position and stood before Carew, who still remained sitting on the bench.
"Do you think that I am blind—that I am an idiot, captain? Do you imagine that I don't know who you are and what you have done,—with all your virtuous talk,—eh, Mr. Carew?"
As he uttered these words rapidly the mate closely observed their effect upon the Englishman, whose face turned ghastly white, and whose right hand stole round to his back.
"No shooting, if you please," cried the Frenchman, in a bantering tone. "Don't draw that revolver. Remember that there's a fine for carrying firearms in Rio. Coward though I may be, you don't frighten me here, captain. I know you dare not kill me on shore. The inquiry afterwards would be fatal to you. Besides, you are wise enough to grasp quickly the fact that our interests are coincident. At sea it was otherwise. There I held my tongue. I was aware that you would have thrown me overboard some dark night had you guessed that I knew so much. Here on shore I am safe."
Carew felt that he was in the man's power, and saw the futility of denial. "What do you know?" he asked, in a dry voice, bringing his hand in front of him again.
"That your name is not Allen, but Carew."
"What else?"