The tone in which he spoke was insistent, almost insolent in its
demand, and she hesitated no longer in meeting the challenge.

"Your pardon, I am sure--Lieutenant Sanchez, this gentleman is Captain
Geoffry Carlyle."

He stood there stiff and straight against the background of light, one
hand in affected carelessness caressing the end of a waxed moustache.
His face was in shadow, yet I was quite aware of the flash of his
eyes.

"Ah, indeed--some passenger I have not chanced to observe before?"

"A prisoner," she returned distinctly. "You may perhaps remember my
uncle pointed him out to us when he first came aboard."

"And you have been out here alone, talking with the fellow?"

"Certainly--why not?"

"Why, the man is a felon, convicted of crime, sentenced to
deportation."

"It is not necessary that we discuss this, sir," she interposed,
rather proudly, "as my personal conduct is not a matter for your
criticism. I shall retire now. No; thank you, you need not come."

He stopped still, staring blankly after her as she vanished; then
wheeled about to vent his anger on me.