Entering immediately, Vytal found the room empty save for one man who sat before a long table in a peculiar posture and apparently half asleep. A silver flagon stood before him, its brim covered by two almost feminine hands, whose fingers were intertwined and palms held downward, as though to conceal or guard the contents of the cup. His head was bent forward until one cheek rested on the back of his clasped hands, while the other showed a central flush on a background of white, delicate skin. The man’s eyes were not closed, but maintained their watch on the door with an evident effort, for the lids blinked drowsily as though soon they must succumb to sleep. The light of a three-branched candelabrum, flickering across the table, showed a face naturally fair, but marred by dissipation. The hair, light brown and of fine texture, hung down over a narrow forehead, and half concealed a well-formed ear. The eyes, always first to suffer from inebriety, showed but a trace of their lost brilliancy when the effort to keep awake was strongest. There was an aspect so pitiable in the man’s whole attitude that Vytal, his face softening, shrank back as though to proceed no further with his interview. But overcoming the first shock occasioned by so weak and forlorn a personality, the soldier went forward, with grim determination. “Is this Master Ananias Dare?” he demanded. “Yes,” came the answer, falteringly, “Master Dare, at your service,” and the slim fellow, attempting to rise, swayed and fell back again into his chair. “Rough sea,” he muttered. “Great waves—mad boat.” Vytal drew a chair to the table, and moving the candelabrum to one side, sat down opposite the drinker. “I come to inquire concerning a plot of which you have knowledge.” The effect of this unexpected statement was curious. “Plot!” exclaimed Ananias—“plot!” and he laughed a thick, uncomfortable laugh. “Now I know the boat is certainly mad. Who said ‘plot’? Oh, who said ‘plot’?” His voice, wailing, sank almost to a whisper. “I cannot believe it. I really cannot believe such extraor’nary statements. Have a cup o’ wine; ’tis wine belies our fears. I thank thee, good wine—I thank thee for so great a courage. Oh, who said ‘plot’?” and, lurching forward, he pushed a great silver tankard toward Vytal. “’Tis wine,” returned the soldier, fixing his gaze on the pitiful assistant, as though to force the words home with look as well as voice, “’tis wine brings danger. Another cup now, and mayhap you are fatally undone.” He wished to play upon the other’s cowardice, and turn, if he could, one weakness into strength to withstand another. The time was short in which to elicit the desired information, and the task not easy.