“You do not appear to like Andros so much as you did, Justinian.” The Greco-Englishman smiled significantly. “Andros is—Andros,” he replied dryly, “and is anything but reliable. What do you think of my handsome Greek, Mr. Roylands?” “I think he is a scamp,” retorted Maurice briefly. “How long did it take you to find that out?” asked Justinian, without showing any sign of surprise. “I did not find it out at all. He confessed his scampishness himself with the most appalling cynicism.” “Oh, as far as cynicism goes, Andros might be a boulevardier soaked in absinthe. It is the soul makes the man, not the surroundings. But never mind this scamp; I wish to hear all about your cruise.” “Hasn’t Caliphronas told you?” “Caliphronas has told me his version of the story, which is all to his own credit; but those six sailors who are at present in Melnos seemed to disagree with his praises of himself, so I would like to hear what you two gentlemen have to say.” Whereupon Crispin, being the more fluent of speech, told the whole story, from the time of the Greek’s arrival at Roylands,—narrated the beginning of the voyage, the arrival in Greek waters, the storm, the loss of the yacht, and the subsequent treachery of Caliphronas. Daring the recital, Justinian, with compressed lips, listened to it in silence, only uttering a smothered exclamation of rage when he heard how Caliphronas had cut the rope, and left those on board the yacht to perish. “Thank you, Crispin,” he said, when the poet brought his narrative to a close; “your story is worthy of being told by Ulysses at the court of Alcinous. I am glad you escaped the fate intended you by Andros; but if he had succeeded, I don’t think he would have dared to show his face here.” Crispin glanced at Maurice significantly, and Justinian caught the look with his accustomed keen-sightedness. “I speak for you as well as Mr. Roylands,” he said quickly. “We did not get on well in the past, Crispin, but let us hope we will be more friendly in the future.” The poet, considerably astonished at this unwonted emotion of Justinian, accepted the proffered hand of the old man,—although he did so with a somewhat doubtful air. “I cannot forget you were kind to me in my youth, Justinian, and brought me up; but I cannot understand these sentiments, now so different from those you expressed when we last met.” “You were yourself to blame in the matter, Crispin. Force is of no avail with me, and you came in a rage to demand what I refused to tell you. I have been a wild man in my day, but I am not so absolutely bad as you think me, and it depends upon yourself as to whether I tell you what you wish to learn.” “I have a right to know!” cried the poet impetuously.