But the idea that if she followed
his instructions those men were not likely to find her steadied him a
little. They did not know that the island had any inhabitants; and he
himself once disposed of, they would be too anxious to get away to waste
time hunting for a vanished girl.
All this passed through Heyst's mind in a flash, as men think in moments
of danger. He looked speculatively at Mr. Jones, who, of course, had
never for a moment taken his eyes from his intended victim. And, the
conviction came to Heyst that this outlaw from the higher spheres was an
absolutely hard and pitiless scoundrel.
Mr Jones's voice made him start.
"It would be useless, for instance, to tell me that your Chinaman has
run off with your money. A man living alone with a Chinaman on an island
takes care to conceal property of that kind so well that the devil
himself--"
"Certainly," Heyst muttered.
Again, with his left hand, Mr. Jones mopped his frontal bone, his
stalk-like neck, his razor jaws, his fleshless chin. Again his voice
faltered and his aspect became still more gruesomely malevolent as of a
wicked and pitiless corpse.
"I see what you mean," he cried, "but you mustn't put too much trust
in your ingenuity. You don't strike me as a very ingenious person, Mr.
Heyst. Neither am I. My talents lie another way. But Martin--"
"Who is now engaged in rifling my desk," interjected Heyst.
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