“This,” replied the leader of the seven, with a quick gesture, “is all that is left of the crew of the Helen of Troy.”
“Ah!” The voice was cool and noncommittal. “Of the Helen of Troy. Do you know what ship this is?”
“Who are you?” the man from the junk demanded suddenly.
The other laughed shortly. “I—” he began.
“You are Amos Widmer!”
And Amos Widmer it was.
“Yes, I am Amos Widmer—and you are . . . all that is left of the crew of the Helen of Troy!”
There was a suggestion of irony in his tone. He stood there for a time, smiling queerly in the dusk, and looking past the other, who faced him with folded arms. His was not a pleasant smile.
“Boy,” he said at last in a soft, gentle voice, “Captain Hastings, of the Helen of Troy, will have the unoccupied stateroom. Show him down, and put yourself at his service.”
There was one porthole to the stateroom, iron gray it seemed, and a lantern swung from an overhead beam. When the boy had gone, Hastings leaned back and surveyed darkly the narrow confines of the little room.