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only knew what he would do if he learned there was a woman about. And how could he begin to tell of it? He couldn't confess his sudden escapade.
“We'll pull it off, sir,” he said, with perfectly acted cheerfulness. He experienced gusts of awful joy expanding in his heart and hot like a fanned flame.
“We must," pronounced Mr. Jones. "This thing, Martin, is not like our other tries. I have a peculiar feeling about this. It's a different thing. It's a sort of test.”
Ricardo was impressed by the governor's manner; for the first time a hint of passion could be detected in him. But also a word he used, the word “test,” had struck him as particularly significant somehow. It was the last word uttered during that morning's conversation. Immediately afterwards Ricardo went out of the room. It was impos. sible for him to keep still. An elation in which an extraordinary softness mingled with savage triumph would allow it. It prevented his thinking, also. He walked up and down the verandah far into the afternoon, eyeing the other bungalow at every turn. It gave no sign of being inhabited. Once or twice he stopped dead short and looked down at his left slipper. Each time he chuckled audibly. His restlessness kept on increasing till at last it frightened him. He caught hold of the balustrade of the verandah and stood still, smiling not at his thoughts, but at the strong sense of life within him. He abandoned himself to it carelessly, even recklessly. He cared for no one, friend or enemy. At that moment Mr. Jones called him by name from within. A shadow fell on the secretary's face.
“Here, sir,” he answered; but it was a moment before he could make up his mind to go in.
He found his governor on his feet. Mr. Jones was tired of lying down when there was no necessity for it. His slender form, gliding about the room, came to a standstill.
"I've been thinking, Martin, of something you suggested. At the time it did not strike me as practical ; but on reflection it seems to me that to propose a game is as good a way as any to let him understand that the time has come to disgorge. It's less—how should I say?—vulgar. He will know what it means. It's not a bad form to give to the business—which in itself is crude, Martin, crude."
"Want to spare his feelings?” jeered the secretary in such a bitter tone that Mr. Jones was really surprised.
"Why, it was your own notion, confound you !"
"Who says it wasn't?” retorted Ricardo sulkily. “But I am fairly sick of this crawling. No! No! Get the exact bearings of his swag and then a rip up. That's plenty good enough for him.”
His passions being thoroughly aroused, a thirst for blood was allied in him with a thirst for tenderness—yes, tenderness. A sort of anxious, melting sensation pervaded and softened his heart when he thought of that girl-one of his own sort. And at the same time jealousy started gnawing at his breast as the image of Heyst intruded itself on his fierce anticipation of bliss.
“The crudeness of your ferocity is positively gross, Martin,” Mr. Jones said disdainfully. “You don't even understand my purpose. I mean to have some sport out of him. Just try to imagine the atmosphere of the gamethe fellow handling the cards—the agonising mockery of it! Oh, I shall appreciate this greatly. Yes, let him lose his money instead of being forced to hand it over. You, of course, would shoot him at once, but I shall enjoy the refinement and the jest of it. He's a man of the best society. I've been hounded out of my sphere by people very much like that fellow. How enraged and humiliated he will be! I promise myself some exquisite moments while watching his play.”
“Ay, and suppose he suddenly starts prancing! He may not appreciate the fun."
“I mean you to be present,” Mr. Jones remarked calmly.
"Well, as long as I am free to plug him or rip him up whenever I think the time has come, you are welcome tr your bit of sport, sir. I sha'n't spoil it.”
It was at this precise moment of their conversation that Heyst had intruded on Mr. Jones and his secretary with his warning about Wang, as he had related to Lena. When he left them, the two looked at each other in wondering silence. Mr. Jones was the first to break it.
"I say, Martin !"
"It's nothing but some of his infernal impudence,” growled the secretary. "You don't believe all that about the Chink, do you, sir? 'Tain't true.”
“It isn't necessary for it to be true to have a meaning for us. It's the why of his coming to tell us this tale that's important."
“Do you think he made it up to frighten us?” asked Ricardo.
Mr. Jones scowled at him thoughtfully.
"The man looked worried," he muttered, as if to himself. “Suppose that Chinaman has really stolen his money! The man looked very worried.”
“Nothing but his artfulness, sir,” protested Ricardo earnestly, for the idea was too disconcerting to entertain. "Is it likely that he would have trusted a Chink with enough knowledge to make it possible?” he argued warmly. "Why, it's the very thing that he would keep close about. There's something else there. Ay, but what?" "Ha, ha, ha!" Mr. Jones let out a ghostly, squeaky
laugh. “I've never been placed in such a ridiculous position before," he went on, with a sepulchral equanimity of tone. "It's you, Martin, who dragged me into it. However, it's my fault too. I ought to—but I was really too bored to use my brain, and yours is not to be trusted. You are a hothead !”
A blasphemous exclamation of grief escaped from Ricardo. Not to be trusted! Hothead! He was almost tearful.
“Haven't I heard you, sir, saying more than twenty times since we got fired out from Manila that we should want a lot of capital to work the East Coast with? You were always telling me that to prime properly all them officials and Portuguese scallawags we should have to lose heavily at first. Weren't you always worrying about some means of getting hold of a good lot of cash? It wasn't to be got hold of by allowing yourself to become bored in that rotten Dutch town and playing a twopenny game with confounded beggarly bank-clerks and such like. Well, I've brought you here, where there is cash to be got-and a big lot, to a moral," he added through his set teeth.
Silence fell. Each of them was staring into a different corner of the room. Suddenly, with a slight stamp of his foot, Mr. Jones made for the door. Ricardo caught him
“Put your arm through mine, sir," he begged him gently but firmly. “No use giving the game away. An invalid may well come out for a breath of fresh air after the sun's gone down a bit. That's it, sir. But where do you want to go? Why did you come out, sir?"
Mr. Jones stopped short.
“I hardly know myself," he confessed in a hollow mutter, staring intently at the Number One bungalow. "It's quite irrational," he declared in a still lower tone.
“Better go in, sir," suggested Ricardo. "What's that? Those screens weren't down before. He's spying from