The captain's face grew livid and then flamed up, every vein standing clear, his eyes blazing.
"He's a liar! A dirty liar! Bring him in!" Each word hissed from his lips like an explosive.
Tod opened the door of the sitting-room and the Swede stepped in. The captain whirled his chair suddenly and faced him. Anger, doubt, and the flicker of a faint hope were crossing his face with the movement of heat lightning.
"You know my son, you say?"
"I do." The answer was direct and the tone positive.
"What's his name?"
"Barton Holt. He signs it different, but that's his name."
"How old is he?" The pitch of the captain's voice had altered. He intended to riddle the man's statement with a cross-fire of examination.
"'Bout forty, maybe forty-five. He never told
"What kind of eyes?"