‘Bring a pickaxe,’ said I.
Denny’s eyes wandered towards Phroso. ‘Is she as annoying as that?’ he seemed to ask. ‘A pickaxe?’ he repeated in surprised tones.
‘Yes, two pickaxes. I’m going to have this floor up, and see if I can find out the great Stefanopoulos secret.’ I spoke with an accent of intense scorn.
Again Phroso laughed; her hands beat very softly against one another. Heavens, what did she do that for, when Denny was there, watching everything with those shrewd eyes of his?
‘The pickaxes!’ I roared.
Denny turned and fled; a moment elapsed. I did not know what to do, how to look at Phroso, or how not to look at her. I took refuge in flight. I rushed into the kitchen, on pretence of aiding or hastening Denny’s search. I found him taking up an old pick that stood near the door leading to the compound. I seized it from his hand.
‘Confound you!’ I cried, for Denny laughed openly at me; and I rushed back to the hall. But on the threshold I paused, and said what I will not write.
For, though there came from somewhere the ripple of a mirthful laugh, the hall was empty! Phroso was gone! I flung the pickaxe down with a clatter on the boards, and exclaimed in my haste:
‘I wish to heaven I’d never bought the island!’