The man in the stern sheets was certainly not Morris. He showed a sick, white face under his sun helmet, and as the boat beached and he scrambled out, Kineia instinctively drew back a step. The appearance of the stranger did not please her.
As for Lygon, he stood as if turned to stone. The man before him was Packard, the one man in all the world he dreaded, the man with whom he had gone that night to the gambling house in New York.
He had often wondered what had become of Packard.
The recognition was mutual.
“Hello!” said Packard. “Why, it’s you.”
“This is a surprise,” said Lygon.
Packard glanced round at the trees, at the beach, at Kineia. Then he laughed.
“Well, this is a start,” said he. “I’m your new captain. Morris is down with a dropsy—won’t be any more use for the sea, and I took on the job for one voyage. Never recognized you in the name, though it’s not a common one. Your agents gave me the job. How on earth did you come here?”
“It’s a long story,” said Lygon. “I’ll tell you some time. This is my wife. Kineia, this is Captain Packard.”
Then Lygon led the way up to the house, where the two men sat in basket chairs and talked while Palu, the maid, served them with drinks and Kineia went off to see about preparations for dinner.