"It would say, Lena, that I--the Swede--after luring my friend and
partner to his death from mere greed of money, have murdered these
unoffending shipwrecked strangers from sheer funk. That would be
the story whispered--perhaps shouted--certainly spread out, and
believed--and believed, my dear Lena!"
"Who would believe such awful things?"
"Perhaps you wouldn't--not at first, at any rate; but the power of
calumny grows with time. It's insidious and penetrating. It can even
destroy one's faith in oneself--dry-rot the soul."
All at once her eyes leaped to the door and remained fixed, stony, a
little enlarged. Turning his head, Heyst beheld the figure of Ricardo
framed in the doorway. For a moment none of the three moved, then,
looking from the newcomer to the girl in the chair, Heyst formulated a
sardonic introduction.
"Mr Ricardo, my dear."
Her head drooped a little. Ricardo's hand went up to his moustache. His
voice exploded in the room.
"At your service, ma'am!"
He stepped in, taking his hat off with a flourish, and dropping it
carelessly on a chair near the door.
"At your service," he repeated, in quite another tone. "I was made aware
there was a lady about, by that Pedro of ours; only I didn't know I
should have the privilege of seeing you tonight, ma'am."
Lena and Heyst looked at him covertly, but he, with a vague gaze
avoiding them both, looked at nothing, seeming to pursue some point in
space.
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