hands clenched, he gazed thoughtfully away upon the distant horizon.
"But as you know who and what the fellows are, you ought, I think, in common justice to Hutcheson, to tell us something," I complained. "If they are adventurers, they ought to be traced."
"What can I do—a prisoner here on board?" he argued bitterly. "How can I act?"
"Leave it all to me. I'm free to travel after them, and find out the truth if only you will tell me what you know concerning them," I said eagerly.
For some moments he was silent, until I again urged him to speak, when he answered in a low and very solemn voice—
"Gordon, let me be frank and open with you, my dear old fellow. I would tell you everything—everything—if I dared. But I cannot—you understand!" And his final words seemed to choke him.
I stood before him, open-mouthed in blank astonishment.
"You really mean—well, that you are in fear of them—eh?" I whispered.
My friend, whose countenance was blanched, and whose hand trembled as he grasped the rail to steady himself, nodded slowly in the affirmative, adding: "To tell you the truth would be to bring upon myself a swift, relentless vengeance that would overwhelm and crush me. Ah! my dear fellow, you do not know—you cannot dream—what brought those desperate men into this port. I can guess—I can guess only too well—but I can only
