“Me no flightened,” protested Wang raucously, throwing up his head—which gave to his throat a more strained, anxious appearance than ever. “Me no likee,” he added in a quieter tone. “Me velly sick.”
He put his hand over the region under the breast-bone.
“That,” said Heyst, serenely positive, “belong one piecee lie. That isn't proper man-talk at all. And after stealing my revolver, too!”
He had suddenly decided to speak about it, because this frankness could not make the situation much worse than it was. He did not suppose for a moment that Wang had the revolver anywhere about his person; and after having thought the matter over, he had arrived at the conclusion that the Chinaman never meant to use the weapon against him. After a slight start, because the direct charge had taken him unawares, Wang tore open the front of his jacket with a convulsive show of indignation.
“No hab got. Look see!” he mouthed in pretended anger.
He slapped his bare chest violently; he uncovered his very ribs, all astir with the panting of outraged virtue; his smooth stomach heaved with indignation. He started his wide blue breeches flapping about his yellow calves. Heyst watched him quietly.
“I never said you had it on you,” he observed, without raising his voice; “but the revolver is gone from where I kept it.”
“Me no savee levolvel,” Wang said obstinately.
The book lying open on Heyst's knee slipped suddenly and he made a sharp movement to catch it up. Wang was unable to see the reason of this because of the table, and leaped away from what seemed to him a threatening symptom. When Heyst looked up, the Chinaman was already at the door facing the room, not frightened, but alert.
“What's the matter?” asked Heyst.