“What do you make of her, Carlyle?” he asked finally, turning slightly to glance at my face.  “I believe that fellow lied.”

“So do I, sir,” I answered promptly.  “Whatever else he may be, he’s no peaceful Dutch trader.  The bark is Dutch built all right, and no doubt once sailed out of Rotterdam; but that fellow got his accent from South Europe.”

“Damn me, that’s just what I thought.”

“Nor is that all, sir.  If he was loaded with cane-sugar and hides for market, he wouldn’t be nearly so high out of water.  That bark was in ballast, or I miss my guess.  Besides, if he was a trader, where was his crew?  There wasn’t a single head popped over the rail while we were alongside; and that isn’t natural.  Even a West India nigger has curiosity.  I tell you the men on board that hooker had orders to keep down.”

Fairfax stroked his chin, his eyes shifting from the distant vessel to Dorothy and Sanchez who were now making their way slowly aft, the latter grasping the girl’s arm, and smirking as he talked rapidly.

“By God! but I believe you are right,” he admitted frankly, “although it had not occurred to me before.  There is something wrong there.  I’ll tell Travers, and have him send a runner overland to give warning below.”

CHAPTER VI

FAIRFAX SPEAKS WITH ME

Sanchez drew a chair into the slight shade cast by the mainsail, and induced his reluctant companion to sit down.  He remained bending over her, with his back turned toward us chattering away, although she only answered in monosyllables, seldom glancing up into his face.  With hands gripping the spokes of the wheel, and my attention concentrated on the course ahead, I could yet notice how closely Fairfax was observing the two, with no pleasant expression in his eyes, and, forgetful that I was merely a servant, I ventured a question.

“You have known Senor Sanchez for some time, sir?”

He started in surprise, yet answered as though the unexpected query had been merely an echo of his own thoughts.

“No,” he admitted frankly.  “Indeed I hardly know how it happened that I invited him to join our party.  It seemed natural enough then, but lately I confess to having taken a dislike to the fellow, and have begun to imagine that he even pushed his way on me.  But,” he stopped, suddenly realizing what he was saying, “why do you ask?”

I was not wholly prepared to say, yet as instantly comprehended the prompt necessity of advancing some reasonable explanation.  There came to me swiftly, from the sharpness of his question, the paralyzing knowledge that I was a servant addressing my master.

“Of course it is no business of mine,” I confessed, rather lamely, “who your guests are.  I’m sorry I spoke.”

“It is altogether too late to say that,” he insisted.  “Some thought prompted the inquiry.  Go on.  See here, Carlyle, you are no nigger or white thief.  I know the difference, and recognize that you are gentleman born.  Because I’ve bought your services for a term of years, is no reason why you cannot talk to me like a man.  Do you know anything about this Spaniard?”