A great heat
ascended from the sun-smitten ground, in an ever-rising wave, as if from
some secret store of earth's fiery heart; for the sky was growing cooler
already, and the sun had declined sufficiently for the shadows of Mr.
Jones and his henchman to be projected towards the bungalow side by
side--one infinitely slender, the other short and broad.
The two visitors stood still and gazed. To keep up the fiction of his
invalidism, Mr. Jones, the gentleman, leaned on the arm of Ricardo, the
secretary, the top of whose hat just came up to his governor's shoulder.
"Do you see them?" Heyst whispered into the girl's ear. "Here they
are, the envoys of the outer world. Here they are before you--evil
intelligence, instinctive savagery, arm in arm. The brute force is at
the back. A trio of fitting envoys perhaps--but what about the welcome?
Suppose I were armed, could I shoot these two down where they stand?
Could I?"
Without moving her head, the girl felt for Heyst's hand, pressed it and
thereafter did not let it go. He continued, bitterly playful:
"I don't know. I don't think so. There is a strain in me which lays me
under an insensate obligation to avoid even the appearance of murder.
I have never pulled a trigger or lifted my hand on a man, even in
self-defence."
The suddenly tightened grip of her hand checked him.
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