I put a bottle of spirits upon the table. The captain shook his head at the bottle and looked around him, presently fixing his eyes on Madam Aurora, at whom he continued to stare after I had begun to talk to him. He had lifted a hat and disclosed a flat, almost bald head. Without further delay I entered upon my narrative, and coaxed his gaze from the lady to me. He heard me through without a syllable of comment, without a grunt of surprise. His composure was perfectly wooden. I observed no further sign, indeed, of his heeding me than an occasional grave nod of the head, such as he might bestow on a minister whose discourse from the pulpit pleased him.
I ceased. The dark Spanish eyes of the lady Aurora burned, with impassioned anxiety, upon the composed countenance of the Quaker skipper.
“Wilt thou be pleased to repeat the sum?” said the captain slowly and deliberately, without the faintest color of wonder in his tone.
“Five hundred and fifty thousand.”
“Of which thy men took three tons?”
“Yes,” said I.
His lips slightly stirred to a sudden pressure of rapid calculation. “And what dost thou think the men will do with those three tons of dollars?”
“Bury ’em,” said I. “They will leave the island in the boat—not for awhile, I dare say—but they will not carry their dollars with them. They’ll not risk putting to sea with three tons of dead weight in addition to the provisions they’ll want. Or put it that they would not take the chance of falling in with a ship, of transferring the money to her, and of standing to the lies they’d have to tell to account for their possession of the silver.”
“Thou art right,” said the captain, with a sober nod.
“They will bury the money,” said I, “swear one another to secrecy, and then return for the silver when they can.”