“I mean more than all the others put together.”
“That's grave news.”
“Ay, grave enough. It's this—how do you feel in yourself, sir? Are you likely to get bored? I know them fits come on you suddenly; but surely you can tell—”
“Martin, you are an ass.”
The moody face of the secretary brightened up.
“Really, sir? Well, I am quite content to be on these terms—I mean as long as you don't get bored. It wouldn't do, sir.”
For coolness, Ricardo had thrown open his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. He moved stealthily across the room, bare-footed, towards the candle, the shadow of his head and shoulders growing bigger behind him on the opposite wall, to which the face of plain Mr. Jones was turned. With a feline movement, Ricardo glanced over his shoulder at the thin back of the spectre reposing on the bed, and then blew out the candle.
“In fact, I am rather amused, Martin,” Mr. Jones said in the dark.
He heard the sound of a slapped thigh and the jubilant exclamation of his henchman:
“Good! That's the way to talk, sir!”