“Well, what is it?”
“Open this door,” I said as sharply, for I felt irritated at being shut out of my place of refuge from the noise and misery of the deck.
There was the sound of a bolt shooting back, the door was thrown open, and I was face to face in the dim light with a tall, dark, youngish man, whose expression was stern and severe in the extreme.
“Well, sir,” he said shortly, “what is it?”
“What is it?” I cried angrily, with a sharp look at my luggage. “What are you doing here? Why is this door fastened?”
He looked at me quite fiercely for a few moments, and then his face softened a little, and he smiled, but it was a cold, wintry sort of facial sunshine.
“Ah, I see,” he said, “you are Mr Vincent, I suppose?”
“Yes, I am, sir, and that is my luggage. What then?”
“Only that my name is Brace, and I suppose we are to be fellow-passengers.”
“I—I—beg your pardon,” I stammered, with my face turning scarlet.