“Fifteen years!” I repeated. “Strange that you should have lived so long among English-speaking people without acquiring some knowledge of their language; and still more strange that you should have spoken English last night in the grog shop in the presence and hearing of my steward! How do you account for so very singular a circumstance as that?”
The fellow was so completely taken aback that for a few seconds he could find no reply. Then, seemingly convinced that further deception was useless, he suddenly gave in, exclaiming, in excellent English—
“Ah, sir, forgive me; I have been lying to you!”
“With what purpose?” I demanded. “Instinct, perhaps,” he answered, with a short, uneasy laugh. “The moment I was brought on deck I recognised that I was aboard a British ship-of-war, and I smelt danger.”
“Ah,” I remarked, “you afford another illustration of the adage that ‘a guilty conscience needs no accuser.’ What have you been doing that you should ‘smell’ danger upon finding yourself aboard a British man-o’-war?”
“I have been doing nothing; but I feared that you intended to impress me,” answered the fellow.
“So I am,” returned I, “but not for long, if you behave yourself. And when you have rendered the service which I require of you, you shall be richly rewarded, according as you serve me faithfully or otherwise.”
“And—and—what is this service, sir?” demanded he, with some slight uneasiness of manner.
“You last night boasted that you could at anytime find Morillo—unless he happened to be at sea,” I said. “Now, I want to find Morillo. Tell me where I may meet with him, and you shall receive fifty pounds within an hour of the moment when I shall have carried his ship a prize into Port Royal harbour.”
“Morillo? who is Morillo?” he demanded, trying unsuccessfully to assume an air of ignorance and indifference at the mention of the name.