“A conference. Suppose he has made up his mind that he can dispose of the white people without your help, and that you happen to be first.”
The sallowness that already had entered his face since his imprisonment became livid, and the red light flared.
“To be sent away?” he thickly asked.
“Yes. Sent away. That is as good a name for it as any other.”
I had ignored Christopher’s gentle tug at my sleeve. A quiver ran through Mr. Vancouver as if a knife had been slipped between his ribs. It was with difficulty that he found breath for speech.
“Doesn’t the king know that I can make him incredibly rich from his gold and silver and diamond mines? Doesn’t he understand that———”
“Perhaps he is as rich as he cares to be. Besides, he has never trusted a white man; and why should he trust one that betrays his own friends?” I could not avoid giving him that thrust.
He came weakly to his feet, terror and despair in every line.
“Did the king send you to say this?” he gasped.
I made no answer. The man sent a wild glance about as though to measure his strength with his prison, and to end all doubts quickly by any means. Then I saw that his wits were gone, and that the purpose of my talk, which was to prepare him for the revelation I had come to make, that he might be on his guard, had miscarried.