"You think—she—sometimes thinks of me?"
Van Slyck's nimble wits were calculating the value to him of this new weakness of the controlleur. He foresaw infinite possibilities, Muller in love would be clay in his hands.
"I am positive, mynheer," he assured with the utmost gravity.
"Kapitein, do not make a mistake," Muller entreated. His voice trembled and broke. "Are you absolutely sure?"
Van Slyck restrained a guffaw with difficulty. It was so ridiculous—this mountain of flesh, this sweaty, panting porpoise in his unwashed linen in love with the slender, graceful Koyala. He choked and coughed discreetly.
"I am certain, mynheer," he assured.
"Tell me, kapitein, what makes you think so?" Muller begged.
Van Slyck forced himself to calmness and a judicial attitude.
"You know I have seen something of women, mynheer," he replied gravely. "Both women here and in the best houses in Amsterdam, Paris, and London. Believe me, they are all the same—a fine figure of a man attracts them."
He ran his eye over Muller's form in assumed admiration.