“Who is this?” he asked.
“Oh! do you not know? Mr. Menaida’s son, Mr. Oliver.”
The two men’s eyes met, their irises contracted.
“I think we have met before,” said Oliver.
“That is possible,” answered Captain Cruel, contemptuously, looking in another direction.
“When we met I knew you without your knowing me,” pursued the young man, in a voice that shook with anger. He had recognized the tone of the voice that had spoken on the wreck.
“Of that I, neither, have any doubt as to its possibility. I do not recollect every Jack I encounter.”
A moment after an idea struck him, and he turned his head sharply, fixed his eyes on young Menaida, and said, “Where did we meet?”
“Very well—encounter!”