He shook his head.
During a tense moment she studied him. She moved over by the translucent window of ground oyster shells, itself, in the mellow afternoon light, as opalescent as the pearls in her hand and his. Her gaze, for an instant, sought the wide stain on the floor where the Manila Kid had, so recently, wretchedly died; and her instant imagination considered the incomprehensible mental attitude of these quiet Chinese who had, without a word, disposed of the body and painstakingly cleansed the spot. No one, observing them day by day, now, as they calmly pursued their tasks, could suspect that the slanting quiet eyes had so lately seen murder.... As for the youth before her she was, now that her moment of fright had passed, supremely confident in her skill and mental strength. He was, still, little more than an undeveloped boy. And his position, now that he had set up his flag of reform, would be absurdly vulnerable.
“Once more”—her low voice was cool and soft as river ice—“give them to me.”
He shook his head. “Tell me first where you got them.”
“If you're determined to make a scene,” said she, “I advise you to be quiet about it. You wouldn't want—her—to know you're in here.”
“I—I”—this was the merest boyishness—“I've told her about—well, that I tried to make love to you. I'm not afraid of that.”
“Still—you wouldn't want her to hear you now.” This was awkwardly true. And his hesitation as he tried to consider it, to work out an attitude, ran a second too long.
“The pearls are mine,” she pressed calmly on. “The best advice I can give you is to return them and go.”
“But—”
“Do you think I want the people aboard this junk—anybody—to know that I have them?”