“Yes, yes,” said Lingard, hastily. “Look here, Mr. Carter, which way was your chief officer trying for Singapore? Through the Straits of Rhio?”
“I suppose so,” answered Carter in a slightly surprised tone; “why do you ask?”
“Just to know . . . What is it, Mr. Shaw?”
“There's a black cloud rising to the northward, sir, and we shall get a breeze directly,” said Shaw from the doorway.
He lingered there with his eyes fixed on the decanters.
“Will you have a glass?” said Lingard, leaving his seat. “I will go up and have a look.”
He went on deck. Shaw approached the table and began to help himself, handling the bottles in profound silence and with exaggerated caution, as if he had been measuring out of fragile vessels a dose of some deadly poison. Carter, his hands in his pockets, and leaning back, examined him from head to foot with a cool stare. The mate of the brig raised the glass to his lips, and glaring above the rim at the stranger, drained the contents slowly.
“You have a fine nose for finding ships in the dark, Mister,” he said, distinctly, putting the glass on the table with extreme gentleness.
“Eh? What's that? I sighted you just after sunset.”
“And you knew where to look, too,” said Shaw, staring hard.