The cook turned his watery blue eyes upon Rokoff and smiled vacuously.
“Ay tank it blow purty soon purty hard,” he said, and then he began rearranging the few dishes upon the little table.
“Get out of here, or I’ll throw you out, you miserable blockhead!” roared Rokoff, taking a threatening step toward the Swede.
Anderssen continued to smile foolishly in his direction, but one ham-like paw slid stealthily to the handle of the long, slim knife that protruded from the greasy cord supporting his soiled apron.
Rokoff saw the move and stopped short in his advance. Then he turned toward Jane Clayton.
“I will give you until tomorrow,” he said, “to reconsider your answer to my offer. All will be sent ashore upon one pretext or another except you and the child, Paulvitch and myself. Then without interruption you will be able to witness the death of the baby.”
He spoke in French that the cook might not understand the sinister portent of his words. When he had done he banged out of the cabin without another look at the man who had interrupted him in his sorry work.
When he had gone, Sven Anderssen turned toward Lady Greystoke—the idiotic expression that had masked his thoughts had fallen away, and in its place was one of craft and cunning.
“Hay tank Ay ban a fool,” he said. “Hay ben the fool. Ay savvy Franch.”
Jane Clayton looked at him in surprise.