“Monsieur” spoke out—guardedly, but in a clear, crisp tone that left no room for doubt upon one point, at least.
“Mon ami, it is done—it is accomplished,” that crisp voice said. “You shall report that to his Majesty’s ministers. Voila, it is done!”
“It is not done!” replied the Mauravanian, in a swift, biting, emphatic whisper. “You jump to conclusions too quickly. Here! take this. It is an evening paper. The thing was useless—he was not there!”
“Sh-h! Take it—read it. I will see you when we land. Not here—it is too dangerous. Au revoir!”
Then he passed on and round the curve of the deckhouse to the promenade on the other side; and “Monsieur,” with the paper hard shut in the grip of a tense hand, moved fleetly back toward the smoke-room.
But not unknown any longer.
“Gawd’s truth—a woman!” gulped Dollops in a shaking voice.
“No, not a woman—a devil!” said Narkom through his teeth. “Margot, by James! Margot, herself! And what is he—what is Cleek?—that a king should enter into compact with a woman to kill him? Margot, dash her! Well, I’ll have you now, my lady—yes, by James, I will!”
“Guv’ner! Gawd’s truth, sir, where are you going?”