Jakoub looked yellow-skinned and old. I saw points of grey in his black hair that I had not noticed before. I felt as if I looked a hundred years old, and knew that whether he went or not I must sleep.
He was standing with his hands folded before him looking at the ugly pile of packing-cases.
“Effendi,” he said, “it is many thousands of pounds. We have worked hard and suffered much. We have paid much money to bring it here.”
“Go away,” I answered petulantly. I was rocking on my feet with the desire to sleep. The man simply bored me now, like a guest that will not depart.
“It is no good,” I added. “You cannot have it. You cannot have any of it.”
“All my life I have dreamed of such a chance, and now you rob me. Why?”
“If you don’t get out of this I’ll—I’ll ring the bell.”
I was conscious of bathos in this threat, but somehow the ordinariness of daylight made it impossible to threaten him with the revolver. I was a clergyman again, longing to get into my pyjamas.
Jakoub went sorrowfully out of the room.
I undressed and lay down, leaving the door ajar.