king flowers. Step
by step, stooping repeatedly over the flower-beds at the foot of the
veranda, the startlingly materialized Chinaman passed off the scene in
a very commonplace manner, by going up the steps and disappearing in the
darkness of the doorway.

Only then the yellow eyes of Martin Ricardo lost their intent fixity. He
understood that it was time for him to be moving. That bunch of
flowers going into the house in the hand of a Chinaman was for the
breakfast-table. What else could it be for?

"I'll give you flowers!" he muttered threateningly. "You wait!"

Another moment, just for a glance towards the Jones bungalow, whence
he expected Heyst to issue on his way to that breakfast so offensively
decorated, and Ricardo began his retreat. His impulse, his desire, was
for a rush into the open, face to face with the appointed victim, for
what he called a "ripping up," visualized greedily, and always with
the swift preliminary stooping movement on his part--the forerunner of
certain death to his adversary. This was his impulse; and as it was, so
to speak, constitutional, it was extremely difficult to resist when his
blood was up. What could be more trying than to have to skulk and dodge
and restrain oneself, mentally and physically, when one's blood was up?
Mr. Secretary Ricardo began his retreat from his post of observation
behind a tree opposite Heyst's bungalow, using great care to remain
unseen. His proceedings were made easier by the declivity of the ground,
which sloped sharply down to the water's edge. There, his feet feeling
the warmth of the island's rocky foundation already heated by the sun,
through the thin soles of his straw slippers he was, as it were, sunk
out of sight of the houses. A short scramble of some twenty feet brought
him up again to the upper level, at the place where the jetty had its
root in the shore. He leaned his back against one of the lofty uprights
which still held up the company's signboard above the mound of derelict
coal. Nobody could have guessed how much his blood was up. To contain
himself he folded his arms tightly on his breast.

Ricardo was not used to a prolonged effort of self-control. His craft,
his artfulness, felt themselves always at the mercy of his nature, which
was truly feral and only held in subjection by the influence of the
"governor," the prestige of a gentleman. It had its cunning too, but it
was being almost too severely tried since the feral solution of a