"To go shares and dissolve partnership at once?" laughed Dixon. "From Hurricane Island it is easy enough to get to Canada, and then I myself mean to go by the name of Christopher Cummings. What are you going to call yourself, Ferail?"
"From now till Thursday I insist on being known as Toroni," the Greek replied, in a muffled tone. "I am sick of the name of Ferail—it has a flavor of sour wine in my mouth; call me ... Toroni."
The two others looked at him in surprise, and yet as if they were used to his unaccountable outbursts of frantic rage and annoyance and could never be sure of his enigmatical temper. It was clear he inspired them with a sort of repulsive curiosity.
After a pause Dixon said, "As you like," and, raising his glass, he continued: "I propose a toast to Toroni, the name borne by a man who plotted and carried through one of the most brilliant transactions of the last ten years." His tone was a mixture of condescension and contempt.
They drank it, Toroni in gloomy silence; the doctor with a sharp, mocking laugh.
"In any case, my much esteemed friend Toroni," said Dixon, after momentary reflection, "it would be advisable to confine the use of your illustrious name to ourselves, or Elaine might take it into her head to have an attack of hysterics, and Captain Hawkins ... ha, ha, ha!" He concluded, overcome by a fit of hilarity: "It was a splendid idea of yours to pose as an Italian detective charged by the Government to investigate the secret affairs of the 'Black Hand'.... Detective Ferail, to whom I afforded my valuable assistance solely in the interests of the community. The captain and the crew are making themselves quite ill, racking their brains to find out what on earth you want to do on Hurricane Island. Well, old man, the comedy is too good to be spoilt.... Officially you are obliged to answer to the name of Ferail.... Good Heavens, man, we are about to pocket six million dollars in gold, pure gold, and you can be squeamish about a name!"
Dixon began to get excited, his voice grew louder and louder, and the doctor hurriedly seized his glass in order to put a stop to his half-crazy flow of words.
"A toast," said Corman, drily, "a toast to the six millions!"
His timely intervention saved the situation.
There was a bright light in Dixon's shifty and evil eyes as he raised his glass to drink the toast. "In gold, pure gold," he said.