I preceded him along the narrow passage, utterly indifferent to the threat in his manner, but still conscious that one hand gripped the butt of his revolver.  Without doubt the fellow had orders to be vigilant, and, perhaps, would even welcome some excuse for violence.  I gave him none, however, hopeful that the approaching interview might yield new information.  The cabin was unoccupied, the table swung up against the beams of the upper deck, the heavy chairs moved back leaving a wide open space.  The furnishings were rich, in excellent taste, the carpet a soft, green Wilton; the hanging lamp quite ornate, while a magnificent upright piano was firmly anchored against the butt of the aftermast.  It was a yacht-like interior, even to the sheet music on the rack, and a gray striped cat dozing on one of the softly cushioned chairs.  Gazing about, I could scarcely realize this was an abode of criminals, or that I was there a captive.  It was the sudden grip of my guard which brought the truth relentlessly home.

“This is no movin’ picture show,” he muttered.  “Hustle along thar, in back o’ that music box.  See—­the way I ’m pointin’.”

There was but one door, evidence that a single cabin occupied the entire space astern, and I stopped before it, my companion applying his knuckles to the wood, but without removing his watchful eyes from me.  A muffled voice asked who was there, and at the response replied: 

“Open the door and show him in, Peters, and remain where you are within call.”

I entered, conscious of a strange feeling of hesitancy, pausing involuntarily as I heard the door close, and glancing hastily about.  I had expected a scene of luxury, a counterpart of the outer cabin.  Instead, I stood upon a plain, uncarpeted deck, the white walls and ceiling undecorated.  On one side was a double tier of berths, lockers were between the ports, and heavy curtains draped the two windows aft.  Opposite the berths was an arm rack, containing a variety of weapons, and the only floor covering was a small rug beneath a desk near the center of the apartment.  This latter was littered with papers, among them a map or two, on which courses had been pricked.  Beyond these all the room contained was a small bookcase, crowded with volumes, and a few chairs, only one upholstered.  The only person present occupied this, and was seated at the desk, watching me, a cigarette smoking between his fingers.  It was the olive-hued man of the cellar, the one I had picked as leader, and his teeth gleamed white in an effort to smile.  In spite of his skin and dark eyes, I could not guess at his nationality, but felt an instinctive dislike to him, more deeply rooted than before, now that I comprehended how completely I was in his power.

“Take a seat, Craig,” he said, speaking with a faint accent barely perceptible.  “The second chair will be found the more comfortable.  Now we can talk easily.  May I offer you a cigarette?”