“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “It is the way,—with me.”
“Come to me tomorrow and tell me exactly what my share of the treasure is to be,—and then I will let you know whether it is to be you—or Manuel Crust, my friend. Oh, you see, I am greedy,—and I can love Manuel quite as easily as I can love—”
“I will cut his heart out if you—”
“There—there! It will not be necessary. Come tomorrow.”
That same afternoon she went to Percival with the Spaniard's story.
“Well, we'll nip that in the bud,” said he, setting his jaw. “The first thing to do is to warn Landover.”
“Warn Landover!” cried the Russian. “He is all mix up in it,—he is one of ze ringleaders.”
“No, he isn't. He's not that kind of a man. He doesn't know a thing about all this, I'll stake my life on it.”
“But, Olga,” cried Ruth, white-faced and troubled; “Fernandez will kill you. He will,—Good heaven, girl, did he not swear to cut your heart out if you—”
“Poof!” cried the other, snapping her fingers. “He will not do zat, my dear. I am not afraid. Do you know what happens to informers in my country? They vanish. No one ever sees them again, and no one ever asks where they have gone. They are here today—tomorrow they are not. It is the same the world over.”