Ah, the cat was out now. Buckhurst did not move, but I saw the muscles of his face relax, and he drew a deep, noiseless breath.
“Well,” he said, coolly, “you may keep those diamonds, for one thing.”
Presently I said, “And for the next thing?”
“You are high-priced, Mr. Scarlett,” he observed.
“Oh, very,” I said, with that offensive, swaggering menace in my voice which is peculiar to the weak criminal the world over.
So I asserted myself and scowled at him and told him I was no fool and taunted him with my importance to his schemes and said I was not born yesterday, and that if Paris was to be divided I knew what part I wanted and meant to stand no nonsense from him or anybody.
All of which justified the opinion he had already formed of me, and justified something else, too—his faith in his own eloquence, logic, and powers of persuasion. Not that I meant to make his mistake and undervalue him; he was an intelligent, capable, remarkable criminal—with the one failing—an overconfident contempt of all men.
“There is one thing I want to ask you,” said I. “Why do you desire to go to Paradise?”
He did not answer me at once, and I studied his passionless profile as he gazed out of the window. 119
“Well,” he said, slowly, “I shall not tell you.”