Confound your fussiness!'
'Because that there fellow can't sleep—that's why. Dash me if he hasn't been doing a think just now! What business has he to think in the middle of the night?'
'How do you know?'
'He was out, sir—up in the middle of the night. My own eyes saw it.'
'But how do you know that he was up to think?' inquired Mr. Jones. 'It might have been anything—toothache, for instance. And you may have dreamed it for all I know. Didn't you try to sleep?'
'No, sir. I didn't even try to go to sleep.'
Ricardo informed his patron of his vigil on the veranda, and of the revelation which put an end to it. He concluded that a man up with a cigar in the middle of the night must be doing a think.
Mr Jones raised himself on his elbow. This sign of interest comforted his faithful henchman.
'Seems to me it's time we did a little think ourselves,' added Ricardo, with more assurance. Long as they had been together the moods of his governor were still a source of anxiety to his simple soul.
'You are always making a fuss,' remarked Mr. Jones, in a tolerant tone.
'Ay, but not for nothing, am I? You can't say that, sir. Mine may not be a gentleman's way of looking round a thing, but it isn't a fool's way, either. You've admitted that much yourself at odd times.'
Ricardo was growing warmly argumentative. Mr. Jones interrupted him without heat.
'You haven't roused me to talk about yourself, I presume?'
'No, sir.' Ricardo remained silent for a minute, with the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth. 'I don't think I could tell you anything about myself that you don't know,' he continued. There was a sort of amused satisfaction in his tone which changed completely as he went on. 'It's that man, over there, that's got to be talked over. I don't like him.'
He, failed to observe the flicker of a ghastly smile on his governor's lips.
'Don't you?' murmured Mr. Jones, whose face, as he reclined on his elbow, was on a level with the top of his follower's head.
'No, sir,' said Ricardo emphatically. The candle from the other side of the room threw his monstrous black shadow on the wall. 'He—I don't know how to say it—he isn't hearty-like.'
Mr Jones agreed languidly in his own manner:
'He seems to be a very self-possessed man.'
'Ay, that's it. Self—' Ricardo choked with indignation. 'I would soon let out some of his self-possession through a hole between his ribs, if this weren't a special job!'
Mr Jones had been making his own reflections, for he asked:
'Do you think he is suspicious?'
'I don't see very well what he can be suspicious of,' pondered Ricardo. 'Yet there he was doing a think. And what could be the object of it? What made him get out of his bed in the middle of the night. 'Tain't fleas, surely.'
'Bad conscience, perhaps,' suggested Mr. Jones jocularly.
His faithful secretary suffered from irritation, and did not see the joke. In a fretful tone he declared that there was no such thing as conscience. There was such a thing as funk; but there was nothing to make that fellow funky in any special way. He admitted, however, that the man might have been uneasy at the arrival of strangers, because of all that plunder of his put away somewhere.
Ricardo glanced here and there, as if he were afraid of being overheard by the heavy shadows cast by the dim light all over the room. His patron, very quiet, spoke in a calm whisper:
'And perhaps that hotel-keeper has been lying to you about him. He may be a very poor devil indeed.'
Ricardo shook his head slightly. The Schombergian theory of Heyst had become in him a profound conviction, which he had absorbed as naturally as a sponge takes up water. His patron's doubts were a wanton denying of what was self-evident; but Ricardo's voice remained as before, a soft purring with a snarling undertone.
'I am sup-prised at you, sir! It's the very way them tame ones—the common 'yporcrits of the world—get on. When it comes to plunder drifting under one's very nose, there's not one of them that would keep his hands off. And I don't blame them. It's the way they do it that sets my back up. Just look at the story of how he got rid of that pal of his! Send a man home to croak of a cold on the chest—that's one of your tame tricks. And d'you mean to say, sir, that a man that's up to it wouldn't bag whatever he could lay his hands in his 'yporcritical way? What was all that coal business? Tame citizen dodge; 'yporcrisy—nothing else. No, no, sir! The thing is to extract it from him as neatly as possible. That's the job; and it isn't so simple as it looks. I reckon you have looked at it all round, sir, before you took up the notion of this trip.'
'No.' Mr. Jones was hardly audible, staring far away from his couch. 'I didn't think about it much. I was bored.'
'Ay, that you were—bad. I was feeling pretty desperate that afternoon, when that bearded softy of a landlord got talking to me about this fellow here. Quite accidentally, it was. Well, sir, here we are after a mighty narrow squeak. I feel all limp yet; but never mind—his swag will pay for the lot!'
'He's all alone here,' remarked Mr. Jones in a hollow murmur.
'Ye-es, in a way. Yes, alone enough. Yes, you may say he is.'
'There's that Chinaman, though.'
'Ay, there's the Chink,' assented Ricardo rather absentmindedly.
