“What do you mean? The Mystic sailed!”
“I mean,” said Don José, “that the Mystic left this port a week ago at night, and with no notice given at the Aduaña.”
I did not stop for another word, but hurried to the mole to convince myself that my friend was mistaken, as I was sure he must be. Eagerly I scanned the bay, searching for my ship, but she was not there! She was gone; of that there was no manner of doubt. But where could she have gone? and why should Mr. Robinson have taken such a strange course?
Beyond the slight suspicion created by the vague impressions of Mr. King, I had found no reason for doubting the probity of this officer. But I was soon to be enlightened; for as I stood gazing out over the bay, a rough-looking fellow dressed like a sailor, with a half-healed scar running transversely across his face, that looked like the mark of a recent knife wound, touched me on the shoulder to rouse me from my reverie, and said, “Is this Captain Kelson?”
“Yes, my man,” I replied; “what do you want of me?”
“Well, sir,” said he, with a half sneer, “I think it’s more than likely you will want something of me!”
“What should I want of you, then?”
“Don’t you want to find your ship?”
“Why, what do you know about her?”
“Well, captain, I know all about her, and I am ready to tell you the whole story; and what is more, I’ll help you to find her.”