"Open the door and show him in, Peters, and remain where you are within call."
I entered, conscious of a strange feeling of hesitancy, pausing involuntarily as I heard the door close, and glancing hastily about. I had expected a scene of luxury, a counterpart of the outer cabin. Instead, I stood upon a plain, uncarpeted deck, the white walls and ceiling undecorated. On one side was a double tier of berths, lockers were between the ports, and heavy curtains draped the two windows aft. Opposite the berths was an arm rack, containing a variety of weapons, and the only floor covering was a small rug beneath a desk near the center of the apartment. This latter was littered with papers, among them a map or two, on which courses had been pricked. Beyond these all the room contained was a small bookcase, crowded with volumes, and a few chairs, only one upholstered. The only person present occupied this, and was seated at the desk, watching me, a cigarette smoking between his fingers. It was the olive-hued man of the cellar, the one I had picked as leader, and his teeth gleamed white in an effort to smile. In spite of his skin and dark eyes, I could not guess at his nationality, but felt an instinctive dislike to him, more deeply rooted than before, now that I comprehended how completely I was in his power.
"Take a seat, Craig," he said, speaking with a faint accent barely perceptible. "The second chair will be found the more comfortable. Now we can talk easily. May I offer you a cigarette?"
I accepted it more to exhibit my own coolness than from any desire to smoke, but without other response. The man had sent for me for some specific purpose, and I desired to learn what that might be before unmasking my own batteries.
"A smoke generally leaves me in more genial humor," he continued, ignoring my reticence. "Mere habit, of course, but we are all more or less in slavery to the weed. I trust you have been fairly comfortable since coming on board the Sea Gull."
"As much so as a prisoner could naturally expect to be," I replied indifferently. "This vessel then is the Sea Gull?"
He bowed, with an expressive gesticulation of the hand.
"At present—yes. In days gone by it has been found convenient to call her the Esmeralda, the Seven Sisters, and the Becky N. The name is immaterial, so long as it sounds well, and conforms to the manifest. However, just now the register reads Sea Gull, Henley, master, 850 tons, schooner-rigged yacht."
"You are under steam?"
"Exactly; auxiliary steam power."