Miles laughed.
“Come, Tony,” he said quietly. “We must have a talk. We should have had, long before.”
“You beat me!” Although Tony chuckled and flung himself into the armchair carelessly, the light in his large gray eyes twinkled hard and wary. “I’m sharp in a way, but you big, long, quiet chaps—Humph! What is it? Carry on!”
Miles came readily to the point.
“I was on the island last night,” he began, “saw all your squabble there, and looked into your chest afterward. So I’ll own up to eavesdropping, if you will to smuggling.”
The sailor gave a short laugh, either scornful or temporizing.
“What?” he asked, as though rather amused than offended. “Smuggling what?”
“It doesn’t matter,” answered Miles. “That’s your affair. I don’t know, and don’t want to. If it’s to go on—” He faltered, but spoke warmly, remembering the quarrel and Tony’s outburst of generous anger. “One thing certain. If it’s to go on—I like you better than ever, Tony, but—you can’t keep this house for headquarters.”
In high good humor, Tony rapped out an oath and hammered the arm of his chair.
“You’re the sort,” he laughed, his teeth flashing white, his eyes brimming with jovial admiration. “Might have known how you’d take it. By the Lord, there’s no tattle-tale blood in you! You’ll do, buster! Chuck me out, but stay friends. That the idea? Right you are! And devilish sorry I’ll be to go.”