Heyst looked on serenely at this outburst, then lost his patience a little.
“What sort of comedy is this? You don't mean to say that you didn't know that I had—that there was a girl living with me here?”
One could see that the eyes of Mr. Jones had become fixed in the depths of their black holes by the gleam of white becoming steady there. The whole man seemed frozen still.
“Here! Here!” he screamed out twice. There was no mistaking his astonishment, his shocked incredulity—something like frightened disgust.
Heyst was disgusted also, but in another way. He too was incredulous. He regretted having mentioned the girl; but the thing was done, his repugnance had been overcome in the heat of his argument against the absurd bandit.
“Is it possible that you didn't know of that significant fact?” he inquired. “Of the only effective truth in the welter of silly lies that deceived you so easily?”
“No, I didn't!” Mr. Jones shouted. “But Martin did!” he added in a faint whisper, which Heyst's ears just caught and no more.
“I kept her out of sight as long as I could,” said Heyst. “Perhaps, with your bringing up, traditions, and so on; you will understand my reason for it.”
“He knew. He knew before!” Mr. Jones mourned in a hollow voice. “He knew of her from the first!”
Backed hard against the wall he no longer watched Heyst. He had the air of a man who had seen an abyss yawning under his feet.