“It's a game of grab—see?” he went on, with a new inflection of intimacy in his murmur. He was looking straight at her now.
“That fat, tame slug of a gin-slinger, Schomberg, put us up to it.”
So strong is the impression of helpless and persecuted misery, that the girl who had fought down a savage assault without faltering could not completely repress a shudder at the mere sound of the abhorred name.
Ricardo became more rapid and confidential:
“He wants to pay him off—pay both of you, at that; so he told me. He was hot after you. He would have given all he had into those hands of yours that have nearly strangled me. But you couldn't, eh? Nohow—what?” He paused. “So, rather than—you followed a gentleman?”
He noticed a slight movement of her head and spoke quickly.
“Same here—rather than be a wage-slave. Only these foreigners aren't to be trusted. You're too good for him. A man that will rob his best chum?” She raised her head. He went on, well pleased with his progress, whispering hurriedly: “Yes. I know all about him. So you may guess how he's likely to treat a woman after a bit!”
He did not know that he was striking terror into her breast now. Still the grey eyes remained fixed on him unmovably watchful, as if sleepy under the white forehead. She was beginning to understand. His words conveyed a definite, dreadful meaning to her mind, which he proceeded to enlighten further in a convinced murmur.
“You and I are made to understand each other. Born alike, bred alike, I guess. You are not tame. Same here! You have been chucked out into this rotten world of 'yporcrits. Same here!”
Her stillness, her appalled stillness, wore to him an air of fascinated attention. He asked abruptly: