The voice of Alphonso seemed to have changed, to have taken on a hard, almost a menacing tone. Mr. Greyne thought of his beloved wife, of Merrin’s exercise-books, and clenched his hands, endeavouring to feel, and to go on, like a militiaman.
“Quite the contrary,” he repeated firmly; “my object in coming to Africa is to—to search about in the Kasbah, and the disrep——”
He choked, recovered himself, and continued: “Disreputable quarters of Algiers—hem———”
“What for, sir?”
The voice of Alphonso was certainly changed.
“What for?” said Mr. Greyne, growing purple. “For frailty.”
“Sir?”
“For frailty—for wickedness.”
A slight cackle emanated from the ledger, but immediately died away. A dead silence reigned in the office, broken only by the distant sound of the sea, and by the hard breathing of Alphonso, who had suddenly begun to pant.
“I wish to go to all the wicked places—all!”