“It seems too good to be true,” said the Marquis thoughtfully.
Unfortunately, it was.
When the Gertrude got in that evening, I was on the jetty looking out for her. So was the Marquis; so was George the Greek. He never glanced at either of us, and seemed to be quite absorbed in cutting up some singularly villainous looking tobacco. But when the lugger had run alongside the jetty, and the boys were coming off, he attached himself to the bat-eared man, and followed him down the street. We followed also, perplexed.
“Do you think he knows?” whispered the Marquis.
“He can’t,” I said. “I should guess that he thinks we’re trying to do illicit pearl buying. The result’s the same, however. He’ll probably stick to us.”
He did. He loafed along in the rear of the bat-eared man until the two reached the temporary shed put up for the native divers to sleep in. Then he sat down on the ground outside the shed, stuffed his pipe full of the ugly tobacco, and coolly began to smoke.
“He’s prepared for all night,” I said. “Let’s leave him. He knows nothing really, or he wouldn’t tag round after us like this. For two pins I’d give him a hammering—”
We went and left him, still smoking.
I slept badly that night, on account of a touch of fever. In consequence, I was late up next morning, and the Marquis, who was always an early riser, was dressed and out-of-doors when I awoke. I was just preparing to rise when he came into my room and sat down on the bed, his pink face curiously pale.
“Flint, my Flint!” he said. “Give me a brandy. I am shook.”