“Si, Senor.”

“Another thing,” sternly, “don’t let me catch you listening outside the door; if I do God have mercy on you.”

“Si, Senor.”

I stepped inside, doubtful enough of what all this might mean, yet quite prepared to accept of any chance it might offer.  Gunsaules closed the door softly, but I had already visioned the apartment in all its details.  It was small, and nearly square, a swinging lantern in the center, a single bunk on one side, and a small table on the other, screwed to the wall, and covered with charts and various papers.  A few books were upon a shelf above this, and a sea chest was shoved under the bunk.  Some oilskins, together with a suit of clothes dangled from wooden pins, while the only other furniture consisted of a straight-backed chair, and a four-legged stool.  The round port stood partly open, and through it I could see the gray expanse of water.

All these I perceived at a glance, but the instant the door closed behind me my entire attention concentrated on Estada.  He sat upright in the chair gazing straight at me, his own face clearly revealed in the light from the open port.  It seemed to me I was looking at the man for the first time, and it was not a pleasant picture.  His face was swarthy, long and thin, with hard, set lips under a long, intensely black moustache, his cheeks strangely crisscrossed by lines.  The nose was large, distinctively Roman, yielding him a hawklike appearance, but it was his eyes which fascinated me.  They were dark, and deeply set, absolute wells of cruelty.  I had never before seen such eyes in the face of a human being; they were beastly, devilish; I could feel my blood chill as I looked into their depths, yet I held myself erect, and waited for the man to speak.  It seemed a long delay, yet doubtless was scarcely more than a moment.  Then his lips curled in what was meant to be a smile, and he waved his hand.

“Sit down on the stool, Gates.  Have you any knowledge of Portuguese?”

“None whatever, sir.”

“Nor do I English; so we shall have to rely on the language of Spain.”

“I am hardly expert in that” I explained.  “But if you do not talk too fast, I can manage fairly well.”

“I shall speak simply.  Wait a moment.”

He arose, stepped quietly to the door, and glanced out, returning apparently satisfied.

“I don’t trust that damned steward,” he said, “nor, as a matter of fact, anyone else wholly.”  He paused, and stared at me; then added:  “I’ve never had any faith in your race, Gates, but am inclined to use you.”

“I do not know any special reason why you should sir.”

“No more do I. Every Englishman I ever knew was a liar, and a sneaking poltroon.  I was brought up to hate the race, and always have.  I can’t say that I like you any better than the others.  By God!  I don’t, for the matter of that.  But just now you can be useful to me if you are of that mind.  This is a business proposition, and it makes no odds if we hate each other, so the end is gained.  How does that sound?”