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Harshly, with distrust, Williams said: "You have his intimate confidence, it appears."

Nada's face flushed, and a wounded look came into her eyes before they glanced down for a moment to her hands. Her fingers plucked nervously at one another. Then, lifting her head, she replied: "He knows that my father is a planter, and that all planters hate you, Captain Williams. And he does like me." Quickly, defensively: "But I never, never have liked him—much. Now I hate him!"

Williams nodded once, slightly, but what he meant no one could have told; and he looked at her steadily, recalling the photograph that he had seen on Penwenn's desk.

"But how the devil," McGuire cried, "did he find out the skipper was Williams?"

"The doorman—an old sailor—knew him."

McGuire swore a mild oath, striking his knuckles against the desk top. "Your usual luck, skipper!"

Williams looked at him, then at Nada; but he said nothing, and a moment later walked away, while they followed him with their eyes. He went to the end of the enormous room and was lost in the dimness.