"Precisely," Tchigorsky said gravely. "I take a great interest in her."
Geoffrey smoked a whole cigarette before he spoke again.
"By the way," he exclaimed, "who and what is Mrs. May?"
"The devil fairly disguised," Ralph croaked. "A beautiful Mephistopheles, a fascinating Beelzebub, a dark-eyed fiend, a—a——"
He pulled up choking with all-consuming rage. His arm was sawing the air as if feeling for the white throat of his lovely foe.
"Steady, there," Tchigorsky muttered. "Steady, Ralph, my friend. Shall we enlighten Master Geoffrey a little as to the kind of woman she is?"
Ralph nodded over his pipe.
"If you like," he said. "Only the tale shall be yours. When I come to think of it, I go out of my mind, as I did that night in the Black Valley. Tell him, Tchigorsky; tell him by all means—but not all."
"Ay, ay, I shall know where to leave off. I'll sit here where I can watch the table. I am interested in that silk thread. So long as it remains simply coiled up there I can go on talking. When it moves——"
"You are wasting time," Geoffrey suggested.