“It’s just as you please,” I said soberly.  “Either lie quiet, or have this back—­it’s up to you.”

“Do you mean to kill me?”

“Not unless I have to, but I hold some things more valuable than your life.  Just at present I mean to look over your papers.”

He must have realized I was beyond playing with, and impervious to threats, for he lay quiet, but with glaring eyes following my every movement, as I threw open the drawers of the desk, and began handling their contents.  For some time I discovered nothing of special interest, only an accumulation of business letters, manifests and old sea charts, showing that the Sea Gull had been concerned in a vast variety of enterprises.  It was only after I had thus emptied the unfastened drawers that I came upon one securely locked.  I tried key after key before discovering the right one, realizing from Henley’s squirming that I must be drawing near the goal.  The first paper touched was a copy of the will, and a little further rummaging put me into possession of various documents which, I believed from a cursory glance at their contents, were of utmost value.  These I hastily transferred to my coat pocket, making sure I had the original letter descriptive of Philip Henley’s death, as well as the copy of a memorandum which the half-breed had evidently drawn up for the convenience of his lawyers.  I ran through this last swiftly, surprised at its frankness, and convinced that the attorneys employed must be as great rascals as the man who commanded their services.  Evidently they had requested full particulars so as to be prepared for any emergency.

I presume this search, swift as I endeavored to conduct it, occupied fully a half hour, every nerve strained by fear of interruption.  However, I could not desist until I had handled every scrap of paper, and the result well repaid the risk.  Once I heard steps above on the deck, but, so far as I knew, no one entered the outer cabin.

“I think I’ve got your number,” I said finally, wheeling about to look at him.

“You ’ve got to get away first,” he sneered defiantly, “and you ’ll not find that so easy.  My turn will come yet, you spy, and then you ’ll learn how I bite.”

I laughed, feeling no mercy.

“All in good time, friend; I think you have had your innings; now it’s mine.  So you are Charles Henley?”

He did not answer.

“The illegitimate son of Judge Henley and a negro mother.  That’s a clever forgery, that paper of legal adoption, I admit.  Must have had legal advice for that.  What did you pay the lawyers?”

He stared at me with compressed lips.

“Not ready to confess yet?  Well, you will be.  By the way, who was that Pierre who wrote telling you of Philip’s death?  Not Vonique, was it?”

“You damn white devil!” he burst forth, tortured beyond resistance.  “What do you know about him?  Who told you?”