I could see nothing, barely the planks underfoot, yet there was nothing to do but obey, with his fingers gripping me.

“What kind of a boat is this?” she whispered.

“I ’m sure I don’t know; not big enough for a passenger liner.”

“The officer is in uniform.”

“Are you sure?”

We were at the head of the companion stairs, and descended carefully, clinging to the rail.  The officer, groping in the darkness, opened a door at the bottom, and hurried us into the lighted cabin.  Facing us, one hand resting on the table, stood a short, sturdy man in uniform.  Before I could speak, or do more than glance about the Interior, my eyes still blinded by the sudden blaze of light, he began questioning.

“Who are you? how did you come to be adrift in these waters?  Answer up, sir—­you ’re no fisherman.”

“We escaped from a vessel last evening, sir.”

“Escaped!  By Gad! are we in a state of war?  What do you mean by escaped—­run away?”

“Yes, sir,” and I stepped aside so he could see her more clearly.  “We were being held as prisoners.”

His eyes flashed to her face, rested an instant, and then his cap was in his hand.

“I beg your pardon, young lady,” he said gravely, “but this is all most strange.  I could almost imagine this was a century or two earlier when pirates roamed these seas.  You were prisoners you say, and escaped.”

“Yes,” I answered, before she could do so, “but you must pardon us details until we know who it is that questions us.”

“Oh, exactly; you are unaware of the nature of this vessel.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, this is the revenue cutter Saline, which I have the honor to command.”

I understood the situation in a flash, my heart leaping in fierce anticipation.

“Mr. Smith, assist the lady to a chair, and have the steward bring a glass of wine.  Now, sir, are you ready to answer.”

“I am; we were prisoners on board the Sea Gull.  It is a long story, envolving a will, in which the master of that vessel was interested.  We escaped in a small boat last evening, and have been floating about since.”

“The Sea Gull?  Do you remember the name, Mr. Smith?”

“No, sir; perhaps a description—­”

“A schooner-rigged steam yacht,” I explained briefly, “clearing from New Orleans for Santiago.”

The two exchanged glances.

“I begin to see light,” said the Captain calmly.  “I think the Sea Gull must have originally sailed as the Mary Somers.  Do you happen to know, sir, where she was really bound, and the nature of her cargo?”

“I do; Spanish Honduras, with munitions of war.”

“Exactly, under command of a half-breed named Henley.  By Gad, Smith, this sounds too good to be true.”

He walked across the cabin twice, thinking, not even glancing up as he passed us.  Suddenly he stopped, facing me.