But he had never hated anyone so much as that old man who had turned up one evening to save him from an utter disaster,—­from the conspiracy of the wretched sailors.  He seemed to have fallen on board from the sky.  His footsteps echoed on the empty steamer, and the strange deep-toned voice on deck repeating interrogatively the words, “Mr. Massy, Mr. Massy there?” had been startling like a wonder.  And coming up from the depths of the cold engine-room, where he had been pottering dismally with a candle amongst the enormous shadows, thrown on all sides by the skeleton limbs of machinery, Massy had been struck dumb by astonishment in the presence of that imposing old man with a beard like a silver plate, towering in the dusk rendered lurid by the expiring flames of sunset.

“Want to see me on business?  What business?  I am doing no business.  Can’t you see that this ship is laid up?” Massy had turned at bay before the pursuing irony of his disaster.  Afterwards he could not believe his ears.  What was that old fellow getting at?  Things don’t happen that way.  It was a dream.  He would presently wake up and find the man vanished like a shape of mist.  The gravity, the dignity, the firm and courteous tone of that athletic old stranger impressed Massy.  He was almost afraid.  But it was no dream.  Five hundred pounds are no dream.  At once he became suspicious.  What did it mean?  Of course it was an offer to catch hold of for dear life.  But what could there be behind?

Before they had parted, after appointing a meeting in a solicitor’s office early on the morrow, Massy was asking himself, What is his motive?  He spent the night in hammering out the clauses of the agreement—­a unique instrument of its sort whose tenor got bruited abroad somehow and became the talk and wonder of the port.

Massy’s object had been to secure for himself as many ways as possible of getting rid of his partner without being called upon at once to pay back his share.  Captain Whalley’s efforts were directed to making the money secure.  Was it not Ivy’s money—­a part of her fortune whose only other asset was the time-defying body of her old father?  Sure of his forbearance in the strength of his love for her, he accepted, with stately serenity, Massy’s stupidly cunning paragraphs against his incompetence, his dishonesty, his drunkenness, for the sake of other stringent stipulations.  At the end of three years he was at liberty to withdraw from the partnership, taking his money with him.  Provision was made for forming a fund to pay him off.  But if he left the Sofala before the term, from whatever cause (barring death), Massy was to have a whole year for paying.  “Illness?” the lawyer had suggested:  a young man fresh from Europe and not overburdened with business, who was rather amused.  Massy began to whine unctuously, “How could he be expected? . . .”