‘What do you mean?’ asked Ernest.
‘Mean! Why, that Yorick and Co. will never see a farthing of their money. I really feel uneasy about our share in the swindle,’ continued Croker, filling a large glass with iced hock, then drinking it slowly and with great apparent relish.
‘Great heavens!’ ejaculated Ernest, ‘I can’t believe it. I won’t taste a drop. And what do you suppose will happen to Von Schätterheims?’
‘The devil only knows, who will probably stick to him for a season staunchly enough. He will make a bolt, or a warrant of extradition, including an assassination and two stupendous jewel robberies, will fetch him.’
‘You are strongly prejudiced,’ said Ernest, deeply shocked and ashamed of his own mild suspicions.
‘Slightly so, perhaps; it runs in my family. I detest all foreigners, and believe them to be capable of anything.’
‘That’s rather hard measure, don’t you think?’
‘Not at all,’ said Croker, finishing the wine. ‘Foreigners are not so madly given to travel as we fools of English people; take my word for it, no foreigner of character and position would come out to an infernal hole of a place like this colony. Your friend Paul seems shaky, slightly apoplectic, or perhaps complaint in the chest; half those mercantile beggars are shams. Daughter gone off very much, looks quite passée. Good-night; I’m off.’
With these few consoling remarks, which Ernest felt much inclined to resent by personal protest, Mr. Jermyn Croker betook himself to the smoking-room of the New Holland, whence, having abused the ball, the guests, the giver, the lights, the decorations, everything, in fact, but the wine, of which he certainly had secured his share, he departed to bed in a consistently uncharitable state of mind with all men.
Paul did not show up at the office next day, and as the afternoon had been fixed for boat-sailing, as a refreshing and suitable recreation to neutralise the somewhat reactionary season which succeeds a ball, Ernest made his way to Morahmee soon after lunch.