"Not in the least," retorted Clubfoot, baring his teeth with a gleam of gold, "as long as you remember that I shoot quickly—and straight!"
He measured the distance between us with his eye and then, as though in deliberate challenge, laid his pistol down on the rock beside him. He produced a cigar case from his pocket.
"I seem to recollect that you are a cigar-smoker!" he began.
"Thanks," I retorted, remembering the holder I had picked up, "I don't smoke German cigars!"
Clubfoot chuckled amiably.
"Nor do I!" he rejoined. "I believe you will find these as good as any that ever came out of Havana. Not long ago I was a highly respected member of the Club there!"
And he tossed his case across to me, after selecting a cigar for himself. I let it lie. I was not taking favours from this man.
Grundt raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. But he made no comment on my ungraciousness.
"Herr Major!" he said as he bit off the end of his cigar, "I must once more congratulate you on the supreme excellence of your country's Secret Service! The intelligence system which located this remote island as the hiding-place, real or imaginary, of treasure, is remarkable! The resource you displayed in acquiring the document which now rests in the letter-case in your pocket does credit both to the service and yourself. My congratulations!"
Here he paused to light his cigar from a pocket-lighter and with lips pursed up, noisily exhaled a long puff of smoke, cocking his head to watch the smoke drift aloft. It was nonchalantly done. But I knew that in reality he was watching me.