partly open, and through it I could see the gray expanse of water.

All these I perceived at a glance, but the instant the door closed
behind me my entire attention concentrated on Estada. He sat upright
in the chair gazing straight at me, his own face clearly revealed in
the light from the open port. It seemed to me I was looking at the man
for the first time, and it was not a pleasant picture. His face was
swarthy, long and thin, with hard, set lips under a long, intensely
black moustache, his cheeks strangely crisscrossed by lines. The nose
was large, distinctively Roman, yielding him a hawklike appearance,
but it was his eyes which fascinated me. They were dark, and deeply
set, absolute wells of cruelty. I had never before seen such eyes in
the face of a human being; they were beastly, devilish; I could feel
my blood chill as I looked into their depths, yet I held myself erect,
and waited for the man to speak. It seemed a long delay, yet doubtless
was scarcely more than a moment. Then his lips curled in what was
meant to be a smile, and he waved his hand.

"Sit down on the stool, Gates. Have you any knowledge of Portuguese?"

"None whatever, sir."

"Nor do I English; so we shall have to rely on the language of Spain."

"I am hardly expert in that" I explained. "But if you do not talk too
fast, I can manage fairly well."

"I shall speak simply. Wait a moment."

He arose, stepped quietly to the door, and glanced out, returning