"Mon ami," said Saltash's voice behind him, maliciously humorous, "you have stolen my property. But—since I have no use for it—you may keep it."
Spentoli looked at him with burning eyes. "Ah! You may laugh!" he said, in a fierce undertone. "You are—without a soul."
"Isn't it better to laugh?" queried Saltash. "Did you expect a blow in the face?"
Spentoli glared for a moment, and recovered himself. "Do you know what they are saying of her?" he said. "They say that she is dying. But it is not true—not true! Such beauty as that—such loveliness—could never die!"
The cynical lines in Saltash's face deepened very perceptibly. He shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.
"Who is the man with her?" demanded Spentoli. "I have never seen him before—the man with the face of a Dane. Do you know him?"
"Yes, I know him," said Saltash.
"Then who is he? Some new lover?" There was suppressed eagerness in the question. Spentoli's eyes were smouldering again.
Saltash was looking supremely ironical. "Perhaps new," he said. "More likely—very old. His name is Larpent, and he is the captain of my yacht."