It was declared. “Mr. Hilliard” leaned forward, and retorted, “Look here, Touchtone! You’d better not make things harder for yourself. I will have a talk with you. It’s what I’m here for. Is Saxton’s boy in your state-room? Well, it makes no difference; I can go there with you, and he can hear all I have to say, for that matter.”
As it happened, “Mr. Hilliard” would have most assuredly preferred not to have Gerald a listener. But he chose to give Philip another idea.
“Or else,” he continued, “do you meet me aft, outside—where the pile of stools is. You know the place. It’s dark there. No one will bother us. Which suits you?”
The waiter was appearing with the ice-water.
“I will meet you outside,” Philip answered. With an undaunted gaze into his foe’s face he added, “I may as well know, sooner or later, what you are hunting us down for in this fashion.”
The other smiled maliciously.
“I will expect you there in five minutes. If you don’t come I will look you up.”
The waiter who handed Philip his jug might have supposed the last sentence just a civil appointment made by one friend with another.
In the state-room, which Philip reached trembling but resolved (and especially resolved on saying nothing to the captain or any body else until after the coming interview), Gerald lay fast asleep, his face turned from the light. He did not hear Philip enter this time.
“Shall I wake him?” questioned he. He set down the water-jug. “No, I wont. The little fellow’s pretty sure to stay like that until I’ve got to the bottom of this row and am back here, ready to make my next move. Heigho! shouldn’t I like to see Mr. Marcy just this minute!”