"By that time," Captain Dove returned with concentrated bitterness, "you'll have found some way to give me the slip altogether. D'ye take me for a blind idiot, Slyne? D'ye think I'm going to let Sallie out of my sight, with you?"
Slyne was visibly disconcerted. "But—aren't you going to take your ship round to England?" he asked, in genuine surprise. "You can't very well leave her lying in Genoa!"
"I'll attend to my own end of the business," said Captain Dove with angry decision. "If you're going to London by train to-night, so am I. If you like to come back on board with me, I'll sail you round. But I'm not the only man on the Olive Branch who can sail a ship. Why, I've half a dozen broken captains—and most of 'em with extra masters' certificates, too—among my crew.
"I've left Brasse and Da Costa in charge, and they'll work her across the Bay if I tell them to. I've only to send them a wire. And all you have to do now is to say which way you want to travel—with me; for I'm going to stick to you like a leech till the day you pay me off."
Slyne walked to the window, humming a tune. But it was obviously costing him all of his refreshed fortitude to refrain from expressing his real sentiments toward Captain Dove. His face, as he stood glaring blindly out at the beautiful scene before him, was like that of a wild beast balked of its fair prey. But from between his bared, set teeth the careless hum came unbroken.
"I think you're foolish," was all he said when he turned again, convinced that it would be a waste of time to argue the matter with the old man, "but—suit yourself. Jobling and I must get to London with Sal—Lady Josceline at the earliest possible moment. If you insist on travelling with us to-night—so be it. All I want you to understand is that there's to be no more drinking, and that you must be advised by me in every other particular. This isn't really the sort of game you're liable to shine in. It would be far better for all of us if you'd stay on board your ship."
Captain Dove's weather-beaten countenance was turning slowly purple. He was striving after speech. Slyne, outwardly cool and contemptuous of his visible fury, stood gazing down at him, hands in pockets. Mr. Jobling was wriggling restlessly in his chair, glancing from one to the other, prepared to flee from the coming storm.
Still without a word, Captain Dove reached again for the brandy-decanter, directly defying Slyne. Slyne stepped forward and snatched it out of his hand.
Simultaneously, the old man and Mr. Jobling sprang from their seats, the former making for Slyne and the latter for the door, which opened just as he reached it, so that he all but fell over a boy in buttons who had knocked and entered carrying a telegram on a tray.
Slyne had not moved. Captain Dove, almost at his throat, spun round on one heel.