CHAPTER EIGHT
Schomberg felt desperation, that lamentable substitute for courage,
ooze out of him. It was not so much the threat of death as the weirdly
circumstantial manner of its declaration which affected him. A mere
"I'll murder you," however ferocious in tone, and earnest, in purpose,
he could have faced; but before this novel mode of speech and procedure,
his imagination being very sensitive to the unusual, he collapsed as if
indeed his moral neck had been broken--snap!
"Go to the police? Of course not. Never dreamed of it. Too late now.
I've let myself be mixed up in this. You got my consent while I wasn't
myself. I explained it to you at the time."
Ricardo's eye glided gently off Schomberg to stare far away.
"Ay! Some trouble with a girl. But that's nothing to us."
"Naturally. What I say is, what's the good of all that savage talk to
me?" A bright argument occurred to him. "It's out of proportion; for
even if I were fool enough to go to the police now, there's nothing
serious to complain about. It would only mean deportation for you. They
would put you on board the first west-bound steamer to Singapore." He
had become animated. "Out of this to the devil," he added between his
teeth for his own private satisfaction.
Ricardo made no comment, and gave no sign of having heard a single word.
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