"The tug's in sight with the crew, sir," he announced.

The mate grunted an acknowledgment, then added, "Come on down, Mr.
Mellaire, and meet our passenger."

I could not help noting the air and carriage with which Mr. Mellaire
came down the poop-ladder and took his part in the introduction. He
was courteous in an old-world way, soft-spoken, suave, and
unmistakably from south of Mason and Dixon.

"A Southerner," I said.

"Georgia, sir." He bowed and smiled, as only a Southerner can bow
and smile.

His features and expression were genial and gentle, and yet his mouth
was the cruellest gash I had ever seen in a man's face. It was a
gash. There is no other way of describing that harsh, thin-lipped,
shapeless mouth that uttered gracious things so graciously.
Involuntarily I glanced at his hands. Like the mate's, they were
thick-boned, broken-knuckled, and malformed. Back into his blue eyes
I looked. On the surface of them was a film of light, a gloss of
gentle kindness and cordiality, but behind that gloss I knew resided
neither sincerity nor mercy. Behind that gloss was something cold
and terrible, that lurked and waited and watched--something catlike,
something inimical and deadly. Behind that gloss of soft light and
of social sparkle was the live, fearful thing that had shaped that
mouth into the gash it was. What I sensed behind in those eyes
chilled me with its repulsiveness and strangeness.