"Do you know what you are rendering yourself liable to, sir, by detaining us at all?" he demanded. "An action—"
Captain Andrius bowed again; again assumed his deprecating smile. He waved the two men to seats and himself took a chair with his back to the door by which he entered.
"My dear sir!" he said courteously. "You forget that I am but a servant. I am under orders. However, I give my word that no harm shall come to you, that you shall be treated with every polite attention, and that you shall be landed."
"When—and where?" asked Vickers.
"Tomorrow, certainly," replied Andrius. "As to where, I cannot exactly say. But—where you will be in touch with—shall we say civilization?"
He showed a set of fine white teeth in such a curious fashion as he spoke the last word that Copplestone and Vickers instinctively glanced at each other, with a mutual instinct of distrust.
"Won't do!" said Vickers. "I insist that you put about and go into
Scarhaven again."
Andrius spread out his open palms and shook his head "Impossible!" he answered. "We are already en voyage. Time presses. Be placable—tomorrow you shall be released."
Vickers was about to answer this appeal with an angry refusal to be either placable or tractable, but he suddenly stopped the words which rose to his tongue. There was something in all this—some mystery, some queer game, and it might be worth while to find it out.
"Where are you taking this yacht?" he demanded brusquely. "Come, now!"