“The river—what river?”
“Oh, I forgot,” says Morgan. “You don’t know, of course.”
“I don’t,” I said. “I’ve been looking for a river these four days, till my eyes ached. Here is Catoche Bay; where’s the river? Can you see one? I can’t.”
“Perhaps,” said Morgan, softly, “because it is not there? Come, Mr Winter,” she added, in her serious manner, “we are passable friends, are we not?”
“Surely.”
“Ah, well, you don’t like me—which matters little, Mr Harry Winter, save to yourself—but you don’t trust me neither, and that matters much, because,” says Morgan, “I am one to be trusted, did you but know it. And in this posture of affairs, do you know, friend Harry, I think you and me are to have dealings together, lest worse befall.”
I had not thought of it before—it was true. I neither liked her overmuch, nor trusted her. But, so curious a thing is man, I began to desire to do both, from that moment. Morgan looked at me and smiled pleasantly.
“Come,” says she, “I am going to tell you a story.”
VIII
The Story of the Incomparable Lady and the Admiral of Buccaneers
This was the story told me by Morgan Leroux, as we leaned on the taffrail of the Wheel of Fortune, in the still splendour of the dawn.