Guy gave him a queer look from eyes that seemed to bum like red coals, but he said nothing whatever. He took the coffee Sylvia held out to him and drank it as if parched with thirst.
Then he turned to her. "Sorry to have made such an exhibition of myself. It's all this infernal sand. Yes, I'll have some more, please. It does me good. Then I'll get back to my own den and have a sleep."
"You can sleep here," Burke said unexpectedly. "No one will disturb you. Sylvia never sits here in the afternoon."
Again Sylvia saw that strange look in Guy's eyes, a swift intent glance and then the instant falling of the lids.
"You're very—kind," said Guy. "But I think I'll get back to my own quarters all the same."
Impulsively Sylvia intervened. "Oh, Guy, please,—don't go back to that horrible little shanty on the sand! I got a room all ready for you yesterday—if you will only use it."
He turned to her. For a second his look was upon her also, and it seemed to her in that moment that she and Burke had united cruelly to bait some desperate animal. It sent such a shock through her that she shrank in spite of herself.
And then for the first time she heard Guy laugh, and it was a sound more dreadful than his cough had been, a catching, painful sound that was more like a cry—the hunger-cry of a prowling beast of the desert.
He got up as he uttered it, and stretched his arms above his head.
She saw that his hands were clenched.
"Oh, don't overdo it, I say!" he begged. "Hospitality is all very well, but it can be carried too far. Ask Burke if it can't! Besides, two's company and three's the deuce. So I'll be going—and many thanks!"