"Oh, it was nothing. Anyone else would have done the same. I happened to be the only one with a rifle."
Raymond turned away quickly and walked over to the crocodile. Neither of them took any notice of him. Violet gazed fondly at Wargrave.
"I owe you so much, Frank, so very much," she murmured in a low voice. "You've made my life worth living; and now you make me live."
He was embarrassed but he pressed the hands he held in his. Then he released them and tried to speak lightly.
"Shall I have the mugger skinned and get a dressing-bag made out of his hide for you?" he said, smiling. "That'd be a nice souvenir of the brute."
She shuddered.
"I don't want to remember him," she cried, turning to glance at the crocodile. "Horrid beast! I can't bear the sight of him."
The mugger certainly looked a most repulsive brute as it lay stretched on the ground, its jaws occasionally opening and shutting spasmodically, the blood from its wounded throat spreading in a pool on the sun-baked earth. It was evidently an old beast; and skull and back were covered with thick horny plates and bosses through which no bullet could penetrate. The big teeth studded irregularly in the cruel jaws were yellow and worn, as were the thick nails tipping the claws at the ends of the powerful limbs.
"The devil's not dead yet. Shall I put another bullet into him?" said Wargrave.
"It's only wasting a cartridge," replied his friend. "He can't do any more harm. When the men come we'll have him cut open and see what he's got inside him."