“And at what do you figure your working expenses?” Grief went on. “Your time, and your two men's, and the divers'?”
“Five thousand would cover it.”
“Then they stand to net you ninety-five thousand?”
“Something like that. But why so curious?”
“Why, I was just trying——” Grief paused and drained his glass. “Just trying to reach some sort of an equitable arrangement. Suppose I should give you and your people a passage to Sydney and the five thousand dollars—or, better, seven thousand five hundred. You've worked hard.”
Without commotion or muscular movement the other man became alert and tense. His round-faced geniality went out like the flame of a snuffed candle. No laughter clouded the surface of the eyes, and in their depths showed the hard, dangerous soul of the man. He spoke in a low, deliberate voice.
“Now just what in hell do you mean by that?”
Grief casually relighted his cigar.
“I don't know just how to begin,” he said. “The situation is—er—is embarrassing for you. You see, I'm trying to be fair. As I say, you've worked hard. I don't want to confiscate the pearls. I want to pay you for your time and trouble, and expense.”
Conviction, instantaneous and absolute, froze on the other's face.