none the less dearly in his heart because his head, from out the experience of bitter years, tells him that it can never be.  And it may be that I go this time for neither money nor drink, nor anything else in which traders ashore or aship commonly bargain.  But, hah, hah!”—­he grinned suddenly, sardonically, at the agent.  “Think of us, Rimmle, sitting in the cabin of a West Coast slaver and smuggler discoursing in this fashion—­two gallant gentlemen who trade in human misery.”

Ten years since Captain Blaise had done any slave-running, and Rimmle, who knew that, was slave-running still, and so he did not quite know how to take this outburst.

Neither did I. Where Captain Blaise was sincere and where talking for effect I could not have said; but surely he was moulding Rimmle like jelly; and now looking out from under his eyebrow at Rimmle, but his lips curved in a smile, he selected a cheroot and lit it, and lit another for Rimmle, who now smiled too.  And cheroot followed cheroot, and story story, and drink drink, and the agent gurgled with joy of the intimacy.  “What adventures you have had, Captain, and”—­he blew a cloud to the cabin roof—­“what stories!”

“Adventures?  Stories?” Captain Blaise shrugged his shoulders.  “Well enough, Rimmle, in their way.  ’Tis true I can tell of blockades evaded and corvettes slipped, of customs officers bedevilled, of tricks on slow-tacking junks, and of dancing with creoles under the moon.  But what is that?  The heedless, unplanned adventuring of an irresponsible American captain.  Now you, if you cared to talk, Rimmle, you, I warrant, could tell of big things, things which concern great people—­of admirals and governors and what not; for you, it is well known, Rimmle, have your own bureau of information.”

Rimmle chuckled.  “It is true”—­and then he paused.  Captain Blaise refilled their glasses.  In courtly imitation of the Captain, Rimmle raised his and they drank.

Captain Blaise filled them up again.  “Men like myself, Rimmle, are but pawns in this trading game.  It is the people on the inside, the Governor of Momba and gentlemen like you, who direct the play.”

Rimmle smacked his lips.  “M-m—­To be sure, the Governor of Momba—­”

There was a half-hour of anecdotes of the Governor of Momba and his son before Cunningham’s name was even mentioned; and when the question of him was slipped, so casually was it slipped that I, with senses astretch, did not realize that this must be the sick man at Momba—­not until the next question was put.

“But there must have been something else, Rimmle, between the Governor and Cunningham?”

Now, had they been drinking ordinary wine or heavy ale, Rimmle might have held his own.  But this was a rare vintage, a delicate bouquet meant for a finer breed than Rimmle.  His tongue was still limber but his wits were fled.  He was vain to display to the famous Captain Blaise his knowledge of secret affairs.  “Yes, it is true, Captain, there was more than showed on the surface there.  And that insult to Cunningham was no accident.  No,”—­he winked,—­“not at all.  He had insulted and shot men before, but he never knew that Cunningham was a professional duellist himself.  None of us in Momba knew.  Did you, Captain?”