Two candles were burning on the stand-up desk. Mr. Jones, tightly enfolded in an old but gorgeous blue silk dressing-gown, kept his elbows close against his sides and his hands deeply plunged into the extraordinarily deep pockets of the garment. The costume accentuated his emaciation. He resembled a painted pole leaning against the edge of the desk, with a dried head of dubious distinction stuck on the top of it. Ricardo lounged in the doorway. Indifferent in appearance to what was going on, he was biding his time. At a given moment, between two flickers of lightning, he melted out of his frame into the outer air. His disappearance was observed on the instant by Mr. Jones, who abandoned his nonchalant immobility against the desk, and made a few steps calculated to put him between Heyst and the doorway.

“It’s awfully close,” he remarked

Heyst, in the middle of the room, had made up his mind to speak plainly.

“We haven’t met to talk about the weather. You favoured me earlier in the day with a rather cryptic phrase about yourself. ‘I am he that is,’ you said. What does that mean?”

Mr. Jones, without looking at Heyst, continued his absentminded movements till, attaining the desired position, he brought his shoulders with a thump against the wall near the door, and raised his head. In the emotion of the decisive moment his haggard face glistened with perspiration. Drops ran down his hollow cheeks and almost blinded the spectral eyes in their bony caverns.

“It means that I am a person to be reckoned with. No — stop! Don’t put your hand into your pocket — don’t.”

His voice had a wild, unexpected shrillness. Heyst started, and there ensued a moment of suspended animation, during which the thunder’s deep bass muttered distantly and the doorway to the right of Mr. Jones flickered with bluish light. At last Heyst shrugged his shoulders; he even looked at his hand. He didn’t put it in his pocket, however. Mr. Jones, glued against the wall, watched him raise both his hands to the ends of his horizontal moustaches, and answered the note of interrogation in his steady eyes.

“A matter of prudence,” said Mr. Jones in his natural hollow tones, and with a face of deathlike composure. “A man of your free life has surely perceived that. You are a much talked-about man, Mr. Heyst — and though, as far as I understand, you are accustomed to employ the subtler weapons of intelligence, still I can’t afford to take any risks of the — er — grosser methods. I am not unscrupulous enough to be a match for you in the use of intelligence; but I assure you, Mr. Heyst, that in the other way you are no match for me. I have you covered at this very moment. You have been covered ever since you entered this room. Yes — from my pocket.”

During this harangue Heyst looked deliberately over his shoulder, stepped back a pace, and sat down on the end of the camp bedstead. Leaning his elbow on one knee, he laid his cheek in the palm of his hand and seemed to meditate on what he should say next. Mr. Jones, planted against the wall, was obviously waiting for some sort of overture. As nothing came, he resolved to speak himself; but he hesitated. For, though he considered that the most difficult step had been taken, he said to himself that every stage of progress required great caution, lest the man in Ricardo’s phraseology, should “start to prance”— which would be most inconvenient. He fell back on a previous statement:

“And I am a person to be reckoned with.”

The other man went on looking at the floor, as if he were alone in the room. There was a pause.

“You have heard of me, then?” Heyst said at length, looking up.

“I should think so! We have been staying at Schomberg’s hotel.”

“Schom —” Heyst choked on the word.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Heyst?”

“Nothing. Nausea,” Heyst said resignedly. He resumed his former attitude of meditative indifference. “What is this reckoning you are talking about?” he asked after a time, in the quietest possible tone. “I don’t know you.”

“It’s obvious that we belong to the same — social sphere,” began Mr. Jones with languid irony. Inwardly he was as watchful as he could be. “Something has driven you out — the originality of your ideas, perhaps. Or your tastes.”

Mr Jones indulged in one of his ghastly smiles. In repose his features had 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; but you are not, Mr. Heyst. To tell you the truth, I don’t know precisely where he is. He has been a little mysterious of late; but he has my confidence. No, don’t get up, Mr. Heyst!”

The viciousness of his spectral face was indescribable. Heyst, who had moved a little, was surprised by the disclosure.

“It was not my intention,” he said.

“Pray remain seated,” Mr. Jones insisted in a languid voice, but with a very determined glitter in his black eye-caverns.

“If you were more observant,” said Heyst with dispassionate contempt, “you would have known before I had been five minutes in the room that I had no weapon of any sort on me.”

“Possibly; but pray keep your hands still. They are very well where they are. This is too big an affair for me to take any risks.”

“Big? Too big?” Heyst repeated with genuine surprise. “Good Heavens! Whatever you are looking for, there’s very little of it here — very little of anything.”

“You would naturally say so, but that’s not what we have heard,” retorted Mr. Jones quickly, with a grin so ghastly that it was impossible to think it voluntary.

Heyst’s face had grown very gloomy. He knitted his brows.

“What have you heard?” he asked.

“A lot, Mr. Heyst — a lot,” affirmed Mr. Jones. He was vying to recover his manner of languid superiority. “We have heard, for instance, of a certain Mr. Morrison, once your partner.”

Heyst could not repress a slight movement.

“Aha!” said Mr. Jones, with a sort of ghostly glee on his face.

The muffled thunder resembled the echo of a distant cannonade below the horizon, and the two men seemed to be listening to it in sullen silence.

“This diabolical calumny will end in actually and literally taking my life from me,” thought Heyst.

Then, suddenly, he laughed. Portentously spectral, Mr. Jones frowned at the sound.

“Laugh as much as you please,” he said. “I, who have been hounded out from society by a lot of highly moral souls, can’t see anything funny in that story. But here we are, and you will now have to pay for your fun, Mr. Heyst.”

“You have heard a lot of ugly lies,” observed Heyst. “Take my word for it!”

“You would say so, of course — very natural. As a matter of fact I haven’t heard very much. Strictly speaking, it was Martin. He collects information, and so on. You don’t suppose I would talk to that Schomberg animal more than I could help? It was Martin whom he took into his confidence.”

“The stupidity of that creature is so great that it becomes formidable,” Heyst said, as if speaking to himself.

Involuntarily, his mind turned to the girl, wandering in the forest, alone and terrified. Would he ever see her again? At that thought he nearly lost his self-possession. 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.

“I don’t think so. What I was going to say is that Martin is much cleverer than a Chinaman. Do you believe in racial superiority, Mr. Heyst? I do, firmly. Martin is great at ferreting out such secrets as yours, for instance.”

“Secrets like mine!” repeated Heyst bitterly. “Well I wish him joy of all he can ferret out!”

“That’s very kind of you,” remarked Mr. Jones. He was beginning to be anxious for Martin’s return. Of iron self-possession at the gaming-table, fearless in a sudden affray, he found that this rather special kind of work was telling on his nerves. “Keep still as you are!” he cried sharply.

“I’ve told you I am not armed,” said Heyst, folding his arms on his breast.

“I am really inclined to believe that you are not,” admitted Mr. Jones seriously. “Strange!” he mused aloud, the caverns of his eyes turned upon Heyst. Then briskly: “But my object is to keep you in this room. Don’t provoke me, by some unguarded movement, to smash your knee or do something definite of that sort.” He passed his tongue over his lips, which were dry and black, while his forehead glistened with moisture. “I don’t know if it wouldn’t be better to do it at once!”

“He who deliberates is lost,” said Heyst with grave mockery.

Mr Jones disregarded the remark. He had the air of communing with himself.

“Physically I am no match for you,” he said slowly, his black gaze fixed upon the man sitting on the end of the bed. “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. There are no fruits here, as you imagine. There are a few sovereigns, which you may have if you like; and since you have called yourself a bandit —”

“Yaas!” drawled Mr. Jones. “That, rather than a swindler. Open warfare at least!”

“Very good! Only let me tell you that there were never in the world two more deluded bandits — never!”

Heyst uttered these words with such energy that Mr. Jones, stiffening up, seemed to become thinner and taller in his metallic blue dressing-gown against the whitewashed wall.

“Fooled by a silly, rascally innkeeper!” Heyst went on. “Talked over like a pair of children with a promi............