“You see a battle-ship?” inquired the Jew.
“A phantom battle-ship,” Ford explained, “a sort OF FLYING DUTCHMAN. The time I saw it I was on the bridge, and I yelled and telegraphed the engine-room. I brought the ship to a full stop, and backed her. But it was dirty weather, and the error was passed over. After that, when I saw the thing coming I did nothing. But each time I think it is real.” Ford shivered slightly and glanced about him. “Some day,” he added fatefully, “it WILL be real, and I will NOT signal, and the ship will sink!”
In silence, Prothero observed his visitor closely. The young man seemed sincere, genuine. His manner was direct and frank. He looked the part he had assumed, as one used to authority.
“My fees are large,” said the Russian.
At this point, had Ford, regardless of terms, exhibited a hopeful eagerness to at once close with him, the Jew would have shown him the door. But Ford was on guard, and well aware that a lieutenant in the navy had but few guineas to throw away on medicines. He made a movement as though to withdraw.
“Then I am afraid,” he said, “I must go somewhere else.”
His reluctance apparently only partially satisfied the Jew.
Ford adopted opposite tactics. He was never without ready money. His paper saw to it that in its interests he was always able at any moment to pay for a special train across Europe, or to bribe the entire working staff of a cable office. From his breast-pocket he took a blue linen envelope, and allowed the Jew to see that it was filled with twenty-pound notes. “I have means outside my pay,” said Ford.
“I would give almost any price to the man who can cure me.” The eyes of the Russian flashed avariciously.
“I will arrange the terms to suit you,” he exclaimed. “Your case interests me. Do you See this mirage only at sea?”