“Not a word.”
The retort was whispered. The missionary had no strength for more.
The man at the table bestirred himself. Perhaps he realised that opportunity was slipping away from him. A swift, imperative sign to the youth who had slain Pri-loo, and the next moment he had passed into the room whence came the redoubled cries of the distracted Felice.
The closing eyes of the dying man widened on the instant. A surge of hopeless terror stared out of their dark depths. His lolling head was lifted erect and it turned in the direction of the door through which the Euralian had vanished. In supreme anguish he realised the thing contemplated. His child! Felice! In a spasm of recollection he saw again the headless trunks of the children of his Mission. The man at the table was forgotten. His own sufferings. Even he had forgotten the thing he was trying to safeguard. Felice! His babe! They—
“If the woman wasn’t yours, Le Gros, the child is,” the man at the table taunted. “Well? Will you—talk?”
The terrible yellow eyes were irresistible. There was no escape from them. And Marty Le Gros forgot everything but the anguish which the taunt inspired.
“Not her! Not that!” he cried. “Yes,” he went on urgently. “You can have it. For God’s sake spare—”
He gasped and his head lolled helplessly. But again he rallied.
“The plans? The plans you made to-night? Where are they? Quick!”
The man at the table had moved. He had approached his victim. His voice was fiercely urgent for he realised the thing that was happening.