"You could spring--"
"Are you trying to frighten yourself?" asked Heyst abruptly. "You don't
seem to have quite enough pluck for your business. Why don't you do it
at once?"
Mr Jones, taking violent offence, snorted like a savage skeleton.
"Strange as it may seem to you, it is because of my origin, my breeding,
my traditions, my early associations, and such-like trifles. Not
everybody can divest himself of the prejudices of a gentleman as easily
as you have done, Mr. Heyst. But don't worry about my pluck. If you were
to make a clean spring at me, you would receive in mid air, so to speak,
something that would make you perfectly harmless by the time you landed.
No, don't misapprehend us, Mr. Heyst. We are--er--adequate bandits; and
we are after the fruit of your labours as a--er--successful swindler.
It's the way of the world--gorge and disgorge!"
He leaned wearily the back of his head against the wall. His vitality
seemed exhausted. Even his sunken eyelids drooped within the bony
sockets. Only his thin, waspish, beautifully pencilled eyebrows, drawn
together a little, suggested the will and the power to sting--something
vicious, unconquerable, and deadly.
"Fruits! Swindler!" repeated Heyst, without heat, almost without
contempt. "You are giving yourself no end of trouble, you and your
faithful henchman, to crack an empty nut.
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