Blake roared at this.
"Like an old woman!" said he. "By God, I must tell him that!"
Anthony stood looking down at the man, and, what with his pale, drawn face and his swathed bandages, he made a grim figure enough.
"It was only a moment ago that I learned your name," said he. "And the sound of it recalled a letter I once had of you at New Orleans."
Blake wrinkled his brows good-humoredly.
"A letter," said he. "Well, now! As I write very seldom, you must be a person of even more consequence than I thought."
But Anthony paid no heed to this mockery.
"I am the same Anthony Stevens who once spoiled your plundering of certain ships owned by Señor Montufars. The letter expressed a pious hope that chance would one day throw me in your way. And, as you see, it has."
Blake leaned back in his chair, shaking with mirth.
"Now," gasped he, "could anything be more like you? It's just what I'd have expected you to do—full of gallantry, open and anxious to come to grips with the immediate occasion." He gestured his appreciation. "Let me assure you, sir, now that I have chanced upon you, I wouldn't have missed the meeting for the world."