ad a curious character of evil, exhausted austerity; but when he
smiled, the whole mask took on an unpleasantly infantile expression. A
recrudescence of the rolling thunder invaded the room loudly, and passed
into silence.

"You are not taking this very well," observed Mr. Jones. This was
what he said, but as a matter of fact he thought that the business
was shaping quite satisfactorily. The man, he said to himself, had no
stomach for a fight. Aloud he continued: "Come! You can't expect to have
it always your own way. You are a man of the world."

"And you?" Heyst interrupted him unexpectedly. "How do you define
yourself?"

"I, my dear sir? In one way I am--yes, I am the world itself, come to
pay you a visit. In another sense I am an outcast--almost an outlaw.
If you prefer a less materialistic view, I am a sort of fate--the
retribution that waits its time."

"I wish to goodness you were the commonest sort of ruffian!" said Heyst,
raising his equable gaze to Mr. Jones. "One would be able to talk to you
straight then, and hope for some humanity. As it is--"

"I dislike violence and ferocity of every sort as much as you do," Mr.
Jones declared, looking very languid as he leaned against the wall, but
speaking fairly loud. "You can ask my Martin if it is not so. This, Mr.
Heyst, is a soft age. It is also an age without prejudices. I've heard
that you are free from them yourself. You mustn't be shocked if I tell
you plainly that we are after your money--or I am, if you prefer to make
me alone responsible. Pedro, of course, knows no more of it than
any other animal would. Ricardo is of the faithful-retainer
class--absolutely identified with all my ideas, wishes, and even whims!"

Mr Jones pulled his left hand out of his pocket, got a handkerchief out
of another, and began to wipe the perspiration from his forehead, neck,
and chin. The excitement from which he suffered made his breathing
visible. In his long dressing-gown he had the air of a convalescent
invalid who had imprudently overtaxed his strength. Heyst,
broad-shouldered, robust, watched the operation from the end of the camp
bedstead, very calm, his hands on his knees.

"And by the by," he asked, "where is he now, that henchman of yours?
Breaking into my desk?"

"That would be crude. Still, crudeness is one of life's conditions."
There was the slightest flavour of banter in the tone of Ricardo's
governor. "Conceivable, but unlikely. Martin is a little crude;