“Shall I tell the boy, Mr. Merriman?” said Clive.

“Not now, not now,” said Merriman quickly.

The other gentlemen, during this dialogue, had been discussing the information they had gained about Gheria fort.

“Well,” said Clive, “you are lucky, let me tell you, Mr. Burke, to be out of this Diggle’s clutches.  By the way, have you seen him since he sold you to the Pirate?”

“He came a few days before I escaped, and wanted me to come here as a spy.  Angria promised me my freedom and a large sum of money.”

“What’s that?” cried Merriman.  “Wanted you to come as a spy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him he might do it himself.”

“A palpable hit!” said Merriman with a grim laugh, “and a very proper answer.  But he’ll have more respect for his skin.”

“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Bourchier, “we have kept Mr. Burke talking so much that he hasn’t had a mouthful of food.  I think we might go out on the veranda and smoke our cigars while he takes some supper.

“Mr. Johnson, you’ve done most justice to my viands, I think.  Perhaps you will join us.”

The harbor master became purple in the face.  He had in fact been eating and drinking with great gusto, taking advantage of the preoccupation of the company to insure that the excellent fare should not be wasted.  He rose hurriedly and, with a sheepish look that scarcely fitted his cheerful features, followed his sarcastic host to the veranda.  All the guests save Mr. Merriman accompanied Mr. Bourchier.

“They all want to talk shop; this expedition against the Pirate,” said Mr. Merriman.  “You and I can have a little chat.”

Desmond was attracted by the open face of his new acquaintance, slightly disfigured, as he noticed, by a long scar on the left temple.

“You’re plucky and lucky,” continued Merriman, “and in spite of what Mr. Clive calls your bad start in bowling me over, you’ll do well.”

His face clouded as he went on.

“That man Diggle:  why should he have sold you to the Pirate:  what had he against you?”

“I can not imagine, sir.”

“You are lucky to have escaped him, as Mr. Clive said.  I think—­yes, I will tell you about him.  His name is not Diggle; it is Simon Peloti.  He is a nephew of Sir Willoughby’s.  His mother married a Greek, against her brother’s wish; the man died when the child was a year old.  As a boy Peloti was as charming a little fellow as one could wish:  handsome, high spirited, clever.  He did well at school, and afterwards at Cambridge:  won a fellowship there.  Then he went to the dogs—­not all at once; men never do.  He was absolutely without principle, and thought of nothing but his own ease and success.  One thing led to another; at last, in the forty-five—­”

He paused.  After a moment he went on: 

“I had a brother, my lad—­”