"Then you think there is no hope of getting the Recipe at all."
"The event is with Allah, and I am not in his confidence."
"I must request you not to be profane in my presence, Mr. Cospatric."
"H'm! I'm feeling as if a little profanity would do me good just now."
"Then let me use the word 'blasphemy.' I object strongly to having my ears polluted by it. Blasphemy——"
"Oh, curse you," I broke out savagely, "stow that rubbish. After coquetting with murder, you've little call to preach about minor morals. I guess we're both fairly rabid just now, and if nagging is your favourite safety-valve, you'd better screw it down; otherwise you'll get hurt."
We stood there facing one another, the candle feebly illuminating us up to the knees, the upper parts of our bodies showing only in dim outline. For a good five minutes neither spoke. At last Weems announced his intention of departing, and was promptly given leave to go anywhere from hell upwards. He went down the passage-way, but, being too short to reach the gap in the roof, asked for assistance. I blew out the candle and went and hove him up, and afterwards climbed to outer air and sunshine myself. He was standing by the lip of the pit, clenching and unclenching his fists, shivering, sweating, and periodically groaning.
A thought struck me, and I promptly gave him the benefit of it without reserve.
"We're in a nice pickle, Mr. Weems, aren't we? You've spent a lot of the money you're so close-fisted about, and will have to travel cheap if you mean getting home again. And I'm in a ten times worse fix. I've chucked up a steamer-berth at Genoa; I'm on a God-forsaken island where there's next to no sea-traffic; and I've run up debts with no prospect of repayment. It looks a bit as if jail's somewhere very close under my lee. And whom have we to thank for it? Why you, my sportsman, and no one else."
"Great heavens, what do you mean?"