A CHANGE OF SKY, BUT NOT OF HABIT
Royson had time and to spare for the analysis of events during the
remainder of the day. In spite of von Kerber's repudiation of luck, he
believed that the fickle jade sometimes favored a man, and he counted
himself thrice fortunate in having met with an adventure leading to
such an unforeseen opening. He realized too, that had he been better
dressed--were his words and manners modeled on smooth convention--he
would not have received the offer of employment on board the
_Aphrodite_. Looked at in cold blood, there was nothing sinister in von
Kerber's wish to keep his business affairs private. If the Baron were
mixed up in a quarrel with some unknown Italian, his association with
people like Mr. Fenshawe and his granddaughter supplied a valid excuse
for observing a certain secrecy.
To guess the nature of the yacht's mission was more difficult. Any
reader of newspapers was aware that Morocco, Montenegro and Armenia,
not to mention the political volcanoes of Finland, Poland, and Carlist
centers in Spain, provided scope for international intrigue even in
these prosaic days. But it was a vain thing to imagine that the
Fenshawes would be involved in any wild-cat scheme of that sort. The
natural sequel to this thought was--who were they? and the nearest Free
Library answered promptly:
"Fenshawe, Hiram, C.M.G., 2d Class Osmanieh Hon. Fellow of Caius
College, Cambridge, landowner and colliery proprietor, an enthusiastic
Egyptologist, vice-President of Upper Egypt Exploration Society; has
devoted immense sums of money and many years of his life to Egyptian
archaeological research. His private collection of coins, pottery,
gold, silver and bronze ornaments, and other works of art having
special reference to the Roman occupation of Egypt, is probably
unequaled.... Born at Liverpool, March 20, 1830; married, June 10,
1854. Hilda, daughter of Sir Adolphus Livingston, Nairn. Only son,
Hildebrand, born April 27, 1856; married, December 20, 1880. Irene, 2d
daughter of the late Dr. Alfred Stowell, LL.D., Master of Trinity Hall,
Cambridge.... Mr. and Mrs. Hildebrand Fenshawe were lost in the wreck
of the P. & O. liner _Bokhara_, off the Pescadores Islands, 1892,
leaving one daughter, Irene Hildegarde, born February 11, 1882."
The book supplied other details, but Royson obtained from the foregoing
extracts a sufficiently clear idea of the identity of the two people
whom he had encountered in the park. Of course, he set his wits to work
instantly to construct new avenues for the promised activity of the
_Aphrodite_, but, these imaginings being as hopelessly mistaken as are
most other human peeps into futurity, they served only to keep him on
tenterhooks until he revisited the outfitters' establishment. There he
was handed the keys of two large steel trunks, canvas-covered, and
requested to assure himself that they contained all the articles set
forth on a list. The manager also gave him a first-class ticket for
Marseilles, and a typewritten instruction that he was to travel by the
nine o'clock train from Victoria that evening. On arriving at the
French port he would find the _Aphrodite_ moored in No. 3. Basin, and
he was requested not to wear any portion of his uniform until on board
the yacht.
The nature of the arrangements, the prodigal supply of clothing, rather
took Dick's breath away. Even the initials, "R. K.," were painted on
the trunks and stitched on to the canvas.
"My employer seems to have done things pretty thoroughly," he could not
help saying.
The shopman dug a compliment out of the remark.
"Our house has a reputation to maintain," he answered, "and Mr.
Fenshawe is one of our best and oldest customers."
There was no mention of Count von Kerber, which added a ripple to the
wave of astonishment in Royson's breast. He took his baggage to Charing
Cross in a cab, and deposited it there. Meanwhile, he learned from a
further scrutiny of the list that his own few belongings were hardly
wanted. He had not been so well equipped since he left Heidelberg to
rush to his mother's death-bed. Nevertheless, having already gathered
in a valise some books, photographs, letters, and other odds and ends,
he went to Brixton to obtain them.
While giving a farewell glance around his dingy room, an old envelope,
thrown aside overnight, reminded him of a half-formed idea, which
appealed to him strongly now that he knew his port of departure.
So he wrote a short letter:
Dear Mr. Forbes:
"You were kind to me four years ago, as kind as Sir Henry Royson would
permit you to be towards one who had wilfully and irreparably insulted
him. My feelings with regard to him have undergone no change. He may be
dead, for all I know, or care. But you, I suppose, are still the
trusted solicitor of the Cuddesham estate, and Sir Henry Royson, if
alive, may have remained unmarried. In that event, I am heir to a
barren title, and it may save you some trouble if I inform you that I
am leaving England. For reasons of no consequence, I am passing under
the name of Richard King. If I return, or settle down in some other
land, I will write to you, say, after the lapse of a year. Please
regard this note as strictly private, and do not interpret it as
foreshadowing any attempt on my part to arrive at a reconciliation with
Sir Henry Royson."
He was about to add the briefest announcement of his new career, but he
checked himself; had not von Kerber forbidden the giving of any
information?
He signed the letter, and addressed it to the senior partner of a firm
of solicitors in Lincoln's Inn Fields. Then, indeed, he felt that he
had snapped the last slender link that bound him to the dull life of
the city. Like Kent, he vowed that "freedom lies hence, and banishment
is here." And he had always hated Brixton, which was unjust to that
pleasant suburb, but the days of his sojourn there had been days of
bondage.
He was among the first to secure a seat in the Continental mail. Having
registered those superb trunks through to Marseilles, and reserved a
comfortable corner by depositing his valise there, he strolled up and
down the platform, and quietly scrutinized his fellow passengers. So
far as he could judge, none of the earlier arrivals were prospective
shipmates. Two bronzed men, of free gait, with that trick of carrying
the hands back to front which singles out the sailor from the rest of
humanity, drew him like a lodestone. But he soon discovered that they
were P. & O. officers, bidding farewell to a friend bound for Egypt.
At last he came upon a man and a woman, a remarkable pair under any
circumstances, but specially interesting to him, seeing that the man
gripped an ancient carpet bag on which was pasted a label with the
glaring superscription: "Captain John Stump, yacht _Aphrodite_,
Marsails." The address was half written, half printed, and the quaintly
phonetic spelling of the concluding word betrayed a rugged independence
of thought which was certainly borne out by Captain John Stump's
appearance. The written label might be wrong; not so that stamped by
Neptune on a weather-beaten face and a figure like a capstan. Little
more than five feet in height, he seemed to be quite five feet wide. If
it be true that a poet is born, not made, Captain Stump was a master
mariner from his cradle. Royson had never before seen such a man. Drawn
out to Royson's stature he would yet have remained the broader of the
two. The lady with him, evidently Mrs. Stump, was mated for him by
happy chance. Short mean usually marry tall women, and your sons of
Anak will select wives of fairy-like proportions. But Mrs. Stump was
even shorter than her husband, and so plump withal, that a tape measure
round her shoulders might have given her the prize for girth.
Captain Stump was examining the interior of each carriage suspiciously
when he set eyes on the P. & O. officers.
"Port yer helium, Becky," he growled, and the two turned to the
right-about. It happened that he entered Royson's compartment. There
were not many first-class passengers that night, so Royson promptly
took possession of his own corner, lit a pipe, and unobtrusively
watched his future commander. This was not difficult, as Stump stood
near the open door, and each word he uttered was audible.
"Don't want to berth alongside sailor-men to-night, Becky," he said,
after sizing up Dick in a comprehensive glance. "Them's my sailin'
orders. 'Hoist no colors,' sez he, 'until you bring to at Marseilles.'"
"What's your first port of call, John?" asked his wife.
"Dunno. I'll send you a wire."
A pause. Then Mrs. Stump:
"Will you be long in Marseilles, John?"
Dick thought that this would be impossible anywhere, but Stump answered:
"Mebbe half an hour, mebbe a week. You know all that I know, Becky."
"It's funny."
Captain Stump spat, and agreed that it was--emphatically funny. A
ticket inspector approached.
"Going on, sir?" he asked.
"Goin' on? Of course I am. What in thunder d'ye think I'm stannin' here
for?" demanded the captain.
"But if you stand there, sir, you'll get left," said the official
good-humoredly.
"Better get in, John, an' don't argy with the gentleman," said Mrs.
Stump.
Her husband obeyed, grudgingly. The inspector examined his ticket, and
Royson's, and locked the door.
"Nice thing!" grumbled Stump. "I can't give you a good-by hug now,
Becky."
This was literally true. The captain's breadth of beam had never been
contemplated by the designers of South-Eastern railway carriages. Even
when the door was open, he had to enter sideways, and the brass rail
across the window rendered it a physical impossibility to thrust head
and shoulders outside.
The shrill whistle of a guard was answered by a colleague.
"Take care of yourself, John," said Becky.
"No fear! And mind you wait till the 'bus stops to-night. The other
evening--"
Royson never learnt what had befallen Mrs. Stump on that other evening.
At the moment the train began to move, he saw a man peeping into the
carriage as if he were looking for some one. He believed it was the
private inquiry agent whom he had shaken off so effectively in Hyde
Park. The gloom of the station, and the fact that the man's face was in
shadow, made him doubtful, but as the train gathered speed, the watcher
on the platform nodded to him and smiled derisively. Captain Stump had
quick eyes. He turned to Royson.
"Beg pardon, mister, but is that a friend of yours?" he asked.
"No," said Dick.
"Well, he was signalin' somebody, an' it wasn't me."
Then remarking that the unknown craft looked like a curiously-colored
pirate, the captain squeezed himself into a seat. When the train ran
into and backed out of Cannon Street, Stump was puzzled. He opened the
carpet-bag, and drew forth a ship's compass, which he consulted. After
a few minutes' rapid traveling his doubts seemed to subside, and he
replaced the compass. Producing a cake of tobacco, he cut off several
shavings with an exceedingly sharp knife, rolled them between his broad
palms, filled a pipe, lit it, and whetted the knife on the side of his
boot. Dick noticed that all his actions were wonderfully nimble for a
man of his build. Any stranger who imagined that this squat Hercules
was slow and ponderous in movement would be wofully mistaken if he
based hostilities on that presumption.
Perhaps the captain missed the companionship of the stout lady he had
parted from at Charing Cross, or it might be that his gruffness was a
matter of habit--at any rate, after a puff or two, he spoke to Royson
again.
"D'ye know wot time we're due at Dover?" he asked.
"Yes, at 10.50."
"We don't stop long there?"
"No. The boat sails ten minutes later."
"Good. I don't cotton on to these blessed trains. Every time they jolt
I fancy we're on the rocks. Give me a ship, an' the steady beat of the
screw, sez I. Then I know where I am."
"I quite agree with you, captain, but you must put up with a fair spell
of railway bumping before you reach Marseilles."
Stump gave him a questioning look. Royson did not resemble the type of
land shark with which he was familiar. Yet his eyes gleamed like those
of a perplexed bull.
"I s'pose you heard my missus an' me talking of Marseilles," he
growled, "but how do you know I'm a captain."
"It is written on your bag."
"Well, my missus wrote that--"
"Moreover," went on Dick, determined to break the ice, "I'm your second
mate."
"Wot?" roared Stump, leaning forward and placing a hand on each knee,
while his fiery glance took in every detail of Royson's appearance.
"You--my--second--mate?"
The words formed a crescendo of contemptuous analysis. But Dick faced
the storm boldly.
"Yes," he said. "I don't see any harm in stating the fact, now that I
know who you are."
"Harm! Who said anything about harm? Wot sort of sailor d'ye call
yerself? Who ever heard of a sailor in knickers?"
Then it dawned on Royson that the captain's wrath was comprehensible.
There is in every male Briton who goes abroad an ingrained instinct
that leads him to don a costume usually associated with a Highland
moor. Why this should be no man can tell, but nine out of ten
Englishmen cross the Channel in sporting attire, and Royson was no
exception to the rule. In his case a sheer revolt against the "office"
suit had induced him to dress in clothes which recalled one glorious
summer on the Westmoreland hills. Their incongruity did not appeal to
him until Captain Stump forcibly drew attention thereto, and his hearty
laugh at the way in which he was enlightened did not tend to soothe his
skipper's indignation.
"Second mate!" bellowed Stump again, calling the heavens to witness
that there never was such another, "Where's yer ticket? Seein' is
believin', they say. Who did you go to sea with? When did you pass?"
"I have no certificate, if that is what you mean, and I have never been
to sea," said Royson.
This remark impressed Stump as an exquisite joke. His rage yielded to a
rumble of hoarse laughter.
"Lord love a duck!" he guffawed. "If only I'd ha' knowed, I could have
told my missus. It would have cheered her up for a week. Never mind.
We've a few minutes in Dover. I'll send her a picture postcard. It'll
'arf tickle 'er to death."
Evidently the captain meant to add certain explanatory remarks which
would account for that Gargantuan tickling. Dick, anxious not to offend
his future commander, smiled sheepishly, and said:
"Sorry I can't supply you with a photograph."
Stump's gaze rested on his stockings, loose breeches, Norfolk jacket
and deerstalker cap.
"Damme," he grinned, "it's better than a pantomime. Second mate! Is
there any more like you on the train? P'haps that chap in the next
caboose, in a fur coat an' top hat, is the steward. An' wot'll Tagg
say?"
"I don't know," said Dick, half inclined to resent this open scorn.
"Who is Tagg, anyhow?"
Stump instantly became silent. He seemed to remember his "sailing
orders." He muttered something about "playin' me for a sucker," and
shut his lips obstinately. Not another word did he utter until they
reached Dover. He smoked furiously, gave Royson many a wrathful glance,
but bottled up the tumultuous thoughts which troubled him. On board the
steamer, however, curiosity conquered prudence. After surveying Dick's
unusual proportions from several points of view, he came up and spoke
in what he intended to be a light comedy tone.
"I say, Mr. Second Mate," he said, "I don't see the Plimsoll Mark on
the funnel. Do you?"
"No, captain. I expect it has been washed off."
"If I was you I'd write to the Board of Trade about it."
"Best let sleeping dogs lie, captain."
"Why?"
"Because they might look for yours, and as it ought to be round your
neck they would say you were unseaworthy."
"So you know what it is, you long swab?"
"Yes. Come and have a drink. That will reach your load-line all right."
Royson had hit on the right method of dealing with Stump. The skipper
promised himself some fun, and they descended to the saloon. The
Channel was in boisterous mood, and Dick staggered once or twice in
transit. Stump missed none of this, and became more jovial. Thus might
one of the Hereford stots he resembled approach a green pasture.
"If you ask the steward he'll bring you some belayin' tackle," he said.
"I am a trifle crank just now," admitted Royson, "but when the wind
freshens I'll take in a reef or two."
Stump looked up at him.
"You've put me clean, out of reckonin'. Never bin to sea, you say?
Wot's yer name?"
"King, Richard King."
"Damme, I'm comin' to like you. You're a bit of a charak-ter. By the
time the _Aphrodite_ points her nose home again I'll 'ave you licked
into shape."
They were crossing the saloon, and were sufficiently noteworthy by
force of contrast to draw many eyes. Indeed, were Baron von Kerber on
board, he must have been disagreeably impressed by the fact that in
sending the short skipper and the long second mate of the _Aphrodite_
to Marseilles in company he had supplied an unfailing means of tracking
their movements. Of course, he was not responsible for the chance that
threw them together, but the mere presence of two such men on the same
vessel would be remembered quite easily by those who make it their
business to watch trans-Channel passengers.
Royson gave no thought to this factor in the queer conditions then
shaping his life. Had Stump remained taciturn, it might have occurred
to him that they were courting observation. But it needed the exercise
of much resourcefulness to withstand the stream of questions with which
his commander sought to clear the mystery attached to a second mate who
knew not the sea. Luckily, he emerged from the flood with credit; nay,
the examiner himself was obliged at times to assume a knowledge which
he did not possess, for, if Stump knew how to con a ship from port to
port, Royson could give reasons for great circle sailing which left
Stump gasping. At last, the stout captain could no longer conceal his
amazement when Royson had recited correctly the rules of the road for
steamships crossing:
If to my Starboard Red appear,
It is my duty to keep clear;
Act as Judgment says is proper--
"Port"--or "Starboard"--"Back"--or "Stop her!"
But when, upon my Port is seen
A steamer's Starboard light of green,
For me there's naught to do, but see
That Green to Port keeps clear of me.
"Come, now," he growled, "wot's your game? D'ye mean to say you've bin
humbuggin' me all this time?"
His little eyes glared redly from underneath his shaggy eyebrows. He
was ready to sulk again, without hope of reconciliation, so Royson
perforce explained.
"I have no objection to telling you, captain, how I came to acquire a
good deal of unusual information about the sea, but I want to
stipulate, once and for all, that I shall not be further questioned as
to my past life."
"Go ahead! That's fair."
"Well, I have spent many a day, since I was a boy of ten until I was
nearly twenty, sailing a schooner-rigged yacht on Windermere. My
companion and tutor was a retired commander of the Royal Navy, and he
amused himself by teaching me navigation. I learnt it better than any
of the orthodox sciences I had to study at school. You see, that was my
hobby, while a wholesome respect for my skipper led me to work hard. I
have not forgotten what I was taught, though the only stretch of water
I have seen during the last few years is the Thames from its bridges,
and I honestly believe that if you will put up with my want of
experience of the sea for a week or so, I shall be quite capable of
doing any work you may entrust to me."
"By gad!" said Stump admiringly, "you're a wonder. Come on deck. I'll
give you a tip or two as we go into Calais."
During the journey across France it was natural that Royson should take
the lead. He spoke the language fluently, whereas Stump's vocabulary
was limited to a few forcible expressions he had picked up from brother
mariners. There was a break-down on the line near Dijon, which delayed
them eight hours, and Stump might have had apoplexy were not Royson at
hand to translate the curt explanations of railway officials. But the
two became good friends, which was an excellent thing for Dick, and the
latter soon discovered, to his great surprise, that Stump had never set
eyes on the _Aphrodite_.
"No," he said, when some chance remark from Royson had elicited this
curious fact, "she's a stranger to me. Me an' Tagg--Tagg is my first
mate, you see--had just left the _Chirria_ when she was sold to the
Germans out of the East Indian trade, an' we was lookin' about for wot
might turn up when the man who chartered the _Aphrodite_ put us on to
this job. Tagg has gone ahead with most of the crew, but I had to stop
in London a few days--to see after things a bit."
Stump had really remained behind in order to buy a complete set of
charts, but he checked his confidences at that point, nor did Royson
endeavor to probe further into the recent history of the yacht.
Instead of traversing Marseilles at night, they drove through its
picturesque streets in broad daylight. Both Royson and the captain were
delighted with the lines of the _Aphrodite_ when they saw her in the
spacious dock. Her tapering bows and rakish build gave her an
appearance of greater size than her tonnage warranted. Royson was
sailor enough to perceive that her masts and spars were intended for
use, and, when he reached her deck, to which much scrubbing and
vigorous holy-stoning had given the color of new bread, he knew that
none but men trained on a warship had coiled each rope and polished
every inch of shining brass.
And his heart sank a little then. The looks and carriage of the few
sailors visible at the moment betokened their training. How could he
hope to hold his own with them? The first day at sea must reveal his
incompetence. He would be the laughing-stock of the crew.
He was almost nervous when an undersized hairy personage shoved a
grinning face up a companionway, and hailed Stump joyfully. Then the
captain did a thing which went far to prove that true gentility is not
a matter of deportment or mincing phrase.
"Keep mum before this crowd," he muttered. "Stand by, and I'll pull you
through."
Stump extended a gigantic hand to the hairy one. "Glad to see you
again, old Never-fail," he roared. "Let me introjuice our second mate.
Mr. Tagg--Mr. King. An' now, Tagg, wot's for breakfast? Mr. King an' me
can eat a Frenchman if you have nothin' tastier aboard."
Royson was relieved to find that he had practically no duties to
perform until the yacht sailed. She had been coaled and provisioned by
a Marseilles firm of shipping agents, and only awaited telegraphic
orders to get up steam, in case the wind were unfavorable for beating
down the Gulf of Lions, when Mr. Fenshawe and his party arrived.
Every member of the crew was of British birth, and Britons are not, as
a rule, endowed with the gift of tongues. Hence, Royson was the only
man on board who spoke French, and this fact led directly to his active
participation in the second act of the drama of love and death in
which, all unconsciously, he was playing a leading part. On the day
after his arrival in the French port, the head partner of the firm of
local agents came on board and explained that, by inadvertence, some
cases of claret of inferior vintage had been substituted for the wine
ordered. The mistake had been discovered in the counting-house, and he
was all apologies.
Royson and he chatted together while the goods were being exchanged,
and, in the end, the polite Frenchman invited _messieurs les officiers_
to dine with him, and visit the Palais de Glace, where some daring
young lady was announced to do things in a motor-car, which, in
England, are only attempted by motor omnibuses.
Stump, who would not leave the yacht, permitted Tagg and Royson to
accept the proffered civility. They passed a pleasant evening, and saw
the female acrobat negotiate a thirty-feet jump, head downward, taken
through space by the automobile. Then they elected to walk to No. 3.
Basin, a distance of a mile and a half. It was about eleven o'clock and
a fine night. The docks road, a thoroughfare cut up by railway lines
holding long rows of empty wagons, seemed to be quite deserted. Tagg,
who was slightly lame, though active as a cat on board ship, was not
able to walk fast. The two discussed the performance, and other matters
of slight interest, and they paid little heed to the movements of half
a dozen men, who appeared from behind some coal trucks, until the
strangers advanced towards them in a furtive and threatening way. But
nothing happened. The prowlers sheered off as quickly as they came.
Tagg, who had the courage which Providence sends to puny men, glanced
up at Royson and laughed.
"Your size saved us from a fight," he said. "That gang is up to
mischief."
"I wonder what they are planning," said Royson, looking back to see if
he could distinguish any other wayfarers on the ill-lighted road.
"Robbery, with murder thrown in," was Tagg's brief comment.
"They had the air of expecting somebody. Did you think that? What do
you say if we wait in the shadow a few minutes?"
"Better mind our own business," said Tagg, but he did not protest
further, and the two halted in the gloom of a huge warehouse.
There was nothing visible along the straight vista of the road, but,
after a few seconds' silence, they heard the clatter and rumble of a
vehicle crossing a distant drawbridge.
"Some skipper comin' to his ship," muttered Tagg. "It can't be ours. By
George, if those chaps tackled him they would be sorry for themselves."
"Captain Stump is a good man in a row, I take it?"
"'Good' isn't the word. He's a terror. I've seen him get six of his men
out of a San Francisco crimp's house, an' I s'pose you 'aven't bin to
sea without knowing wot that means."
"Ah!" said Royson admiringly. He had found safety many times during the
past two days by some such brief comment. Thus did he steer clear of
conversational rocks.
The carriage drew nearer, and became dimly visible--it was one of the
tiny voiturettes peculiar to French towns. Suddenly the listeners heard
a shout. The horse's feet ceased their regular beat on the roadway.
Royson began to run, but Tagg vociferated:
"Wait for me, you long ijiot! If you turn up alone they'll knife you
before you can say 'Jack Robinson.'"
Dick had no intention of saying "Jack Robinson," but he moderated his
pace, and helped Tagg over the ground by grasping his arm. They soon
saw that two men had pulled the driver off the box, and were holding
him down--indeed, tying him hand and foot. Royson prevented the success
of this operation by a running kick and an upper cut which placed two
Marseillais out of action. Then he essayed to plunge into a fearsome
struggle that was going on inside the carriage. Frantic oaths in German
and Italian lent peculiar significance to a flourishing of naked
knives. But that which stirred the blood in his veins was his
recognition of Baron von Kerber's high-pitched voice, alternately
cursing and pleading for life to assailants who evidently meant to show
scant mercy. One man who, out of the tail of his eye, had witnessed
Dick's discomfiture of the coachman's captors, drew a revolver, a
weapon not meant for show, as its six loaded chambers proved when Dick
picked it up subsequently.
Royson had no love of unnecessary risk. Stooping quickly, he grasped
the hub of the off front wheel, and, just varying the trick which saved
Miss Fenshawe in Buckingham Palace Road, threw the small vehicle over
on its side. No doubt the patient animal in the shafts wondered what
was happening, but the five struggling men in the interior were even
more surprised when they were pitched violently into the road.
Royson sprang into the midst of them, found von Kerber, and said:
"You're all right now, Baron. We can whip the heads off these rascals."
The sound of his English tongue seemed to take all the fight out of the
remaining warriors. Tagg had closed valiantly with one, and the others
made off. Von Kerber rose to his feet, so Royson went to Tagg's
assistance. He heard the Baron shriek, in a falsetto of rage:
"You may have recovered the papyrus, Alfieri, but it is of no value to
you. Name of an Italian dog! I have outwitted you even now!"
While kneeling to pinion the footpad's arms behind his back, thus
rescuing Tagg from a professor of the savate, Dick tried to guess von
Kerber's motive in hurling such an extraordinary taunt after one of his
runaway adversaries, and in French, too, whereas the other had an
Italian name, and, in all likelihood, spoke only Italian. Was this
Alfieri the man who "hated" von Kerber--who "brought a very serious
charge" against him? But Royson was given no time for consecutive
thought. The Baron, breathing heavily, and seemingly in pain, came to
him and said, in the low tone of one who does not wish to be overheard:
"Let your prisoner go, Mr. King. I am all right, and everlastingly
obliged to you, but I do not wish to be detained in Marseilles while
the slow French law gets to work. So let him go. He is nothing--a mere
hireling, yes? And we sail to-morrow."