Debney looked at his old friend for a moment debatingly, then said quietly: “Slave-dealing, and doing it successfully, under the noses of men-of-war of all nations.”
“But you decided it was not he after all?”
“I doubted. If Ted came to that, he would do it in a very big way. It would appeal to him on some grand scale, with real danger and, say, a few scores of thousands of pounds at stake—not unless.”
Mostyn lit a cigar, and, thrusting his hands into his pockets, regarded the scene before him with genial meditation—the creamy wash of the sea at their feet, the surface of the water like corrugated silver stretching to the farther sky, with that long lane of golden light crossing it to the sun, Alcatras, Angel Island, Saucilito, the rocky fortresses, and the men-of-war in the harbour, on one of which flew the British ensign—the Cormorant, commanded by Debney.
“Poor Ted!” said Mostyn at last; “he might have been anything.”
“Let us get back to the Cormorant,” responded Debney sadly. “And see, old chap, when you get back to England, I wish you’d visit my mother for me, for I shall not see her for another year, and she’s always anxious—always since Ted left.”
Mostyn grasped the other’s hand, and said: “It’s the second thing I’ll do on landing, my boy.”
Then they talked of other things, but as they turned at the Presidio for a last look at the Golden Gate, Mostyn said musingly: “I wonder how many millions’ worth of smuggled opium have come in that open door?”
Debney shrugged a shoulder. “Try Nob Hill, Fifth Avenue, and the Champs Elysees. What does a poor man-o’-war’s-man know of such things?”
An hour later they were aboard the Cormorant dining with a number of men asked to come and say good-bye to Mostyn, who was starting for England the second day following, after a pleasant cruise with Debney.