have promised
Nerida to go back to Babelthouap, or somewhere in the Pelews, and
Motley has promised to land us at Ponape, in the Carolines. We can get
away from there in one of the Dutch firm's vessels."

"I am very sorry, Taplin----" I began, when old Captain Warren burst in
with--"Look here, Taplin, we haven't got much time to talk. Here's the
ALIDA'S boat coming, with that (blank blank) scoundrel Motley in it.
Take my advice. Don't go away in the ALIDA." And then he looked at
Nerida, and whispered something.

A red spark shone in Taplin's dark eyes, then he pressed Warren's hand.

"I know," he answered, "he's a most infernal villain--Nerida hates him
too. But you see how I am fixed. The ALIDA is our only chance of
getting back to the north-west. But he hasn't got old Raymond to deal
with in me. Here they are."

* * * * *

Motley came in first, hat and fan in hand. He was a fine-looking man,
with blue eyes and an unusually fair skin for an island supercargo,
with a long, drooping, yellow moustache. Riedermann, the skipper, who
followed, was stout, coarse, red-faced, and brutal.

"How are you, gentlemen?" said Motley affably, turning from Taplin and
his wife, and advancing towards us. "Captain Riedermann and I saw the
spars of your brig showing up over the coconuts yesterday, and
therefore knew we should have the pleasure of meeting you."

Warren looked steadily at him for a moment, and then glanced at his
outstretched hand.

"The pleasure isn't mutual, blarst you, Mr Motley," he said coldly, and
he put his hand in his pocket.

The supercargo took a step nearer to him with a savage glare in his
blue eyes. "What do you mean by this, Captain Warren?"

"Mean?" and the imperturbable Warren seated himself on a corner of the
table, and gazed stolidly first at the handsome Motley and then at the
heavy, vicious features of Riedermann. "Oh, anything you like. Perhaps
it's because it's not pleasant to see white men landing at a quiet
island like this with revolvers slung to their waists under their
pyjamas; looks a bit too much like Bully Hayes' style for me," and then
his tone of cool banter suddenly changed to that of studied insolence.
"I say, Motley, I was talking about you just now to Taplin AND Nerida.
Do you want to know what I was saying? Perhaps I had better tell you. I
was talking about Tita Raymond--and yourself."

* * * * *

Motley put his right hand under his pyjama jacket, but Taplin sprang
forward,