Again silence ensued. The slow opening of a shutter, through which a few rays of light had been struggling feebly, suffused the scene with a dim, yellow glow. Hastings, his knees slightly bent, his hands raised as for attack or defense, his lips parted, was confronted by Amos Widmer, who stood with folded arms, smiling softly.
“What does this mean?” he repeated, in the same low, calm voice.
Taken at an overwhelming disadvantage, Hastings’ mind, groping, could summon no reply.
Down the companionway came only the familiar sounds of a ship at sea, the creaking of blocks and braces, the low voices of the watch, the whisper of the ocean.
“So, sir, you presume upon my hospitality!”
“There are laws—” Hastings’ voice was thick—“that override the laws of ‘hospitality.’”
“I fear, sir, you are little versed in the customs of gentlemen.” And Widmer, measuring the effect of the retort, let the smile creep to his eyes.
Drawing himself erect, Hastings stepped forward until the shadow of the casement fell across his face and masked it, but although he said nothing, Widmer persisted.
“Gentlemen have a code of their own. And when a man fails to meet that code, it is sometimes necessary to teach him a painful lesson.”
Another pause followed, then, clearly and distinctly, a shrill laugh from somewhere beyond the cabin sounded on the night air.