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“What was he–a Dutchman?” I asked, not seeing in the least what all this had to do with the Westport boatmen and the Westport summer visitors and this extraordinary old fellow’s irritable view of them as liars and fools. “Devil knows,” he grunted, his eyes on the wall as if not to miss a single movement of a cinematograph picture. “Spoke nothing but English, anyway. First I saw him– comes off a ship in dock from the States–passenger. Asks me for a small hotel near by. Wanted to be quiet and have a look round for a few days. I took him to a place–friend of mine. . . Next time– in the City–Hallo! You’re very obliging–have a drink. Talks plenty about himself. Been years in the States. All sorts of business all over the place. With some patent medicine people, too. Travels. Writes advertisements and all that. Tells me funny stories. Tall, loose-limbed fellow. Black hair up on end, like a brush; long face, long legs, long arms, twinkle in his specs, jocular way of speaking–in a low voice. . . See that?”

I nodded, but he was not looking at me.

“Never laughed so much in my life. The beggar–would make you laugh telling you how he skinned his own father. He was up to that, too. A man who’s been in the patent-medicine trade will be up to anything from pitch-and-toss to wilful murder. And that’s a bit of hard truth for you. Don’t mind what they do–think they can carry off anything and talk themselves out of anything–all the world’s a fool to them. Business man, too, Cloete. Came over with a few hundred pounds. Looking for something to do–in a quiet way. Nothing like the old country, after all, says he. . . And so we part–I with more drinks in me than I was used to. After a time, perhaps six months or so, I run up against him again in Mr. George Dunbar’s office. Yes, THAT office. It wasn’t often that I . . . However, there was a bit of his cargo in a ship in dock that I wanted to ask Mr. George about. In comes Cloete out of the room at the back with some papers in his hand. Partner. You understand?”

“Aha!” I said. “The few hundred pounds.”

“And that tongue of his,” he growled. “Don’t forget that tongue. Some of his tales must have opened George Dunbar’s eyes a bit as to what business means.”

“A plausible fellow,” I suggested.

“H’m! You must have it in your own way–of course. Well. Partner. George Dunbar puts his top-hat on and tells me to wait a moment. . . George always looked as though he were making a few thousands a year–a city swell. . . Come along, old man! And he and Captain Harry go out together–some business with a solicitor round the corner. Captain Harry, when he was in England, used to turn up in his brother’s office regularly about twelve. Sat in a corner like a good boy, reading the paper and smoking his pipe. So they go out. . . Model brothers, says Cloete–two love-birds–I am looking after the tinned-fruit side of this cozy little show. . . Gives me that sort of talk. Then by-and-by: What sort of old thing is that Sagamore? Finest ship out–eh? I dare say all ships are fine to you. You live by them. I tell you what; I would just as soon put my money into an old stocking. Sooner!”

He drew a breath, and I noticed his hand, lying loosely on the table, close slowly into a fist. In that immovable man it was startling, ominous, like the famed nod of the Commander.