“Do you believe, Inza, that they are really the most dangerous? Are they not in many cases the tools of others with more brains? Now you know there’s a person on board this yacht who can’t be a Mestizo, yet I am afraid of him. He is a Mexican, for he has said so.”
Inza laughed a little.
“You mean Señor Porfias del Norte. He’s a friend of Mr. Crossgrove.”
“I don’t care,” said Elsie. “I don’t like him. I’m afraid of him. I’m afraid of his smooth and snaky ways. I am afraid of his smile and his restless eyes.”
“I am sure he is a fine-looking fellow in a way.”
“In a way, perhaps,” admitted Elsie. “Some might call him fine-looking, and I have no doubt he considers himself very handsome.”
“Yes, I think he does,” nodded Inza. “He has a way of rolling his eyes at one, and then that smile which shows his perfect teeth—I am sure he practices it before the mirror.”
“It’s very strange, but I can’t bear to have him near me.”
“It’s very strange, but somehow I have taken a great interest in him. I fancy he has some underlying purpose in life, and I wonder what it is. I am consumed by a desire to read his secret and sound the depths of him.”
“Well, you may spend your time reading him as much as you like,” said Elsie; “but excuse me! When he comes around I vanish.”