Chard uttered a curse. “Never mind him, then. Sling it out of the port or you'll be giving it to me instead perhaps. Are the other two cups ready?”
The man nodded. “All ready, but it's a bit early yet.”
“That doesn't matter. Pour it out and take it to them—the sooner the better.”
Chard, whose dark face was deeply flushed, sat down at the table, lit a cigar, and watched his villainous accomplice place the two cups of coffee with some biscuits on a tray, take it to Miss Remington's door and knock.
“Coffee, ma'am.”
“Thank you, steward,” he heard Tessa's soft voice reply as Maoni opened the door and took the tray from Jessop.
The supercargo rose from his seat with a smile of satisfaction. The crime he meditated seemed no crime to his base and vicious heart. He merely regarded it as a clever trick; dangerous perhaps, but not dangerous to him; for deeply steeped as he was in numerous villainies he had never yet been called to account for any one of his misdeeds, and long immunity had rendered him utterly hardened and callous to any sentiment of pity or remorse.
He went on deck and walked leisurely for'ard till he came abreast of the funnel. A big swarthy-faced man who was standing near the ash-hoist was awaiting him.
“Are you sober enough, Tim, not to make any mistakes?” asked Chard, leaning forward and looking eagerly into the man's face.
“Just as sober as you are,” was the reply, given with insolent familiarity. “I've kept my head pretty clear, as clear as yours and the skipper's, anyway.”