There's a something--it isn't exactly the appearance, it's
a--no use me trying to tell you. You ain't an Englishman, and if you
were, you wouldn't need to be told."
An unsuspected stream of loquacity had broken its dam somewhere deep
within the man, had diluted his fiery blood and softened his pitiless
fibre. Schomberg experienced mingled relief and apprehension, as if
suddenly an enormous savage cat had begun to wind itself about his legs
in inexplicable friendliness. No prudent man under such circumstances
would dare to stir. Schomberg didn't stir. Ricardo assumed an easy
attitude, with an elbow on the table. Schomberg squared his shoulders
afresh.
"I was employed, in that there yacht--schooner, whatever you call it--by
ten gentlemen at once. That surprises you, eh? Yes, yes, ten. Leastwise
there were nine of them gents good enough in their way, and one
downright gentleman, and that was . . ."
Ricardo gave another upward jerk of his chin as much as to say: He! The
only one.
"And no mistake," he went on. "I spotted him from the first day. How?
Why? Ay, you may ask. Hadn't seen that many gentlemen in my life. Well,
somehow I did. If you were an Englishman, you would--"
"What was your yacht?" Schomberg interrupted as impatiently as he dared;
for this harping on nationality jarred on his already tried nerves.
Pages:
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166