“I ask you,” she went on, “to keep out of this affair—to disassociate yourself from it. I ask it because you have been considerate and brave, and because I do not wish you harm.”
He turned toward her, leaning a little forward on the lounge:
“No use,” he said, smiling. “I’m in it until it ends––”
“Let it end then!” said a soft, thick voice directly behind him. And Neeland turned and found the man he had seen on deck standing beside him. One of his fat white hands held an automatic pistol, covering him; the other was carefully closing the door which he had noiselessly opened to admit him.
“Karl!” exclaimed Ilse Dumont.
“It is safaire that you do not stir, either, to interfere,” he said, squinting for a second at her out of his eyes set too near together.
“Karl!” she cried. “I asked him to come in order to persuade him! I gave him my word of honour!”
“Did you do so? Then all the bettaire. I think we 238 shall persuade him. Do not venture to move, young man; I shoot veree willingly.”
And Neeland, looking at him along the blunt barrel of the automatic pistol, was inclined to believe him.
His sensations were not agreeable; he managed to maintain a calm exterior; choke back the hot chagrin that reddened his face to the temples; and cast a half humorous, half contemptuous glance at Ilse Dumont.