“See here, Gore,” said he, “you are not wanted in this affair, my father--Mr. Ropes--” Here he stopped a moment. “He doesn’t know, but as long as you have begun, you might as well tell him all,” said Brown. “Mr. Ropesend is Mr. Anderson’s father, and you will doubtless incur the wrath of the firm if you meddle with this, so you might just as well go.” “I’ll go if you say so,” I said, “but it looked as though murder was being done when I broke in,” and for the life of me I could not help the following question, “And Miss Anderson is not your sister, then?” “Thank God, no, she is not,” put in Brown. “Mr. Ropesend will not care to have any of his sailing-masters taking part in this affair,” said Anderson, coldly. “What you have heard you can keep to yourself. If you don’t you will probably suffer the consequences. Now you can get out, for Mr. Brown and I will settle this matter before we leave here to-night.” “I fail to see how we can settle it without you making good and confessing everything,” said Brown. “There is hardly room in the firm for both of us, and I’m tired of going to sea.” Anderson rose from his chair. He was cool and collected, but something in his manner made me think he was on the point of collapse. “You had better go, Mr. Gore,” said he, quietly. “There will be no more disturbance, I forgot myself just before you arrived, and I thank you for coming when you did. You can go without fear of any harm to Mr. Brown. Good-bye.” He held out his hand and I took it. His fingers were cold and, although he was a large and powerful fellow, he shook visibly when I let go. “Good night,” I said, and turned to the door. “Good night, Gore,” said Brown. “I have your word not to talk about anything you have seen or heard.” “Yes,” I answered, “good night.” And I went forth. CHAPTER XXVI. I met the two sailors at “Old Ben’s” tavern. They had been waiting, taking a nip or two at a table until I came. “‘Tis good liquor,” said Garnett, as he put down his glass; “‘tis a most holy an’ pious drink, makin’ all manner of holy an’ pious thoughts come into my old head. ’Tis good liquor an’ well fitted for a man along in years, like myself, who has filled his skin with all manner of truck and ruined his digestion. You say you’ll have another?” The glasses were refilled. “Now, ’pon me whurd, fer a fact, Mr. Gore, ’tis fer gettin’ outrajis drunk that baldheaded infidel is after; jist obsarve him.” Garnett had removed his cap and was hard at work mopping the dent in the top of his shining, bald cranium, where he had been “stove down” by a handspike in the hands of a sailor on one of his early voyages. Then he pulled out his little nickel-plated vial and sniffed at it violently.