Cunningham lurched out of the salon and into the passage. He opened the door to Cabin Two and turned on the light. Dennison blinked stupidly. Cunningham liberated him and stood back.
“Dinner at seven.”
“What the devil are you doing on board?” asked Dennison, thickly.
“Well, here’s gratitude for you! But in order that there will be no misunderstanding, I’ve turned to piracy for a change. Great sport! I’ve chartered the yacht for a short cruise.” His banter turned into cold, precise tones. Cunningham went on: “No nonsense, captain! I put this crew on board away back in New York. Those beads, though having a merit of their own, were the lure to bring your father to these parts. Your presence and Miss Norman’s are accidents for which I am genuinely sorry. But frankly, I dare not turn you loose. That’s the milk in the cocoanut. I grant you the same privileges as I grant your father, which he has philosophically agreed to accept. Your word of honour to take it sensibly, and the freedom of the yacht is yours. Otherwise, I’ll lock you up in a place not half so comfortable as this.” 126
“Piracy!”
“Yes, sir. These are strangely troubled days. We’ve slumped morally. Humanity has been on the big kill, with the result that the tablets of Moses have been busted up something fierce. And here we are again, all kotowing to the Golden Calf! All I need is your word—the word of a Cleigh.”
“I give it.” Dennison gave his word so that he might be free to protect the girl in the adjoining cabin. “But conditionally.”
“Well?”
“That the young lady shall at all times be treated with the utmost respect. You will have to kill me otherwise.”
“These Cleighs! All right. That happens to be my own order to the crew. Any man who breaks it will pay heavily.”