"Yes, go to hell," said the man, apparently grateful for the lead.
Harper stood nonplused, defeated. But he managed to say, feebly enough as it seemed to himself, "I don't know who you are, sir, but I'll thank you for an explanation."
The man laughed insolently. "It's the limit," he said.
At this point, Cora, by an effort verging upon the superhuman, sat up on the sofa.
"Charlie." Her voice was a wheeze. "I want you to set about this beauty—to oblige me."
"My God, I've a good mind to," said Charlie, who as he became more sober seemed to grow more dangerous. "I don't know who you are, my friend, but if you'll take advice you'll clear out."
As the man spoke, his eyes looked particularly ugly. But among the things the Sailor had learned aboard the Margaret Carey was the art of keeping cool in a crisis.
"You've no right here at all, sir," said the man. "You ought to know that."
"No right!" said Henry Harper, in astonishment.
"If you are a wise man, you will go away. I was here first."