"I tell you I am desperate," Schomberg repeated. "I am as desperate as
any man ever was. I don't care a hang what happens to me!"
"Well, then"--Mr. Jones began to speak with a quietly threatening
effect, as if the common words of daily use had some other deadly
meaning to his mind--"well, then, why should you make yourself
ridiculously disagreeable to us? If you don't care, as you say, you
might just as well let us have the key of that music-shed of yours for
a quiet game; a modest bank--a dozen candles or so. It would be greatly
appreciated by your clients, as far as I can judge from the way they
betted on a game of ecarte I had with that fair, baby-faced man--what's
his name? They just yearn for a modest bank. And I am afraid Martin here
would take it badly if you objected; but of course you won't. Think of
the calls for drinks!"
Schomberg, raising his eyes, at last met the gleams in two dark caverns
under Mr. Jones's devilish eyebrows, directed upon him impenetrably. He
shuddered as if horrors worse than murder had been lurking there, and
said, nodding towards Ricardo:
"I dare say he wouldn't think twice about sticking me, if he had you at
his back! I wish I had sunk my launch, and gone to the bottom myself
in her, before I boarded the steamer you came by. Ah, well, I've been
already living in hell for weeks, so you don't make much difference.
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