* * * * *
"Well," said Quintana, a thin, strident edge to his tone.
"My father is mistaken. I haven't any packet."
The man's visage behind his mask flushed darkly. Without warning or ceremony he caught Eve by the throat and tore open her shirt. Then, hissing and cursing and panting with his own violence, he searched her brutally and without mercy — flung her down and tore off her spiral puttees and even her shoes and stockings, now apparently beside himself with fury, puffing, gasping, always with a fierce, nasal sort of whining undertone like an animal worrying about its kill.
"Cowardly beast!" she panted, fighting him with all her strength — "filthy, cowardly beast! ——" striking at him, wrenching his grasp away, snatching at the disordered clothing half stripped from her.
His hunting knife fell clattering and she fought to get it, but he struck her with his open hand, knocking her down at his feet, and stood glaring at her with every tooth bared.
"So" he cried. "I give you ten minutes, make up your mind, tell me what you do with that packet."
He wiped the blood from his face where she had struck him.
"You don't know Jose Quintana. No! You shall make his acquaintance.
Yes!"
Eve got up on naked feed, quivering from head to foot, striving to button the grey shirt at her throat.