"To our better acquaintance," he said.
But Verrill, at length at the end of all conjecture, cried out, the cup still in his hand:
"Your toast is most appropriate, sir. A better acquaintance with you, I assure you, would be most pleasing to me. But I must ask your pardon for my stupidity. Where have we met before? Who are you, and what is your name?"
The stranger did not immediately reply, but fixed his grave grey eyes upon Verrill's. For a moment he held his gaze in his own. Then as the seconds slipped by, the first indefinite sense of suspicion flashed across Verrill's mind, flashed and faded, returned once more, faded again, and left him wondering. Then as the stranger said:
"Do you remember,—it was long ago. Do you remember the sight of naked spars rocking against a grey torn sky, a ship wrenching and creaking, wrestling with the wind, a world of pale green surges, the gale singing through the cordage, and then as the sea swept the decks—ah, you do remember."
For Verrill had started suddenly, and with the movement, full recognition, complete, unequivocal, gleamed suddenly in his eyes. There was a long silence while he returned the gaze of the other, now no longer a stranger. At length Verrill spoke, drawing a long breath.
"Ah ... it is you ... at last."
"Well!"
Verrill smiled:
"It is well, I had imagined it would be so different,—when you did come. But as it is—," he extended his hand, "I am very glad to meet you."