“But—but Molke had him so tight.”
“So tight,” snarled Mr. Neuburg, “that Mr. Clement Seadon walked smiling and calm into the lobby of the hotel, and still smiling, still calm, told me to my face that he had beaten me at my own game.”
“He—he told you to your face?”
“In his own way, of course. He told me that he was not in prison, but that the steward Molke was.... I am not so dull that I did not understand him completely. But—but, you see what it means?”
“That—that”—the woman was a little flustered before the bullying anger of her companion—“that means he is still a danger we have to contend with.”
“Women”—said the mountainous Mr. Neuburg—“women are the apostles of the obvious. Yes, he is a danger we have to contend with, my dear. Only he is something more. It means that he thinks we are a danger that no longer counts.... I see I will have to explain. This is truly your day for being heroically dull. This man who looks foolish is not. He knows that we have delivered ourselves into his hands. He is going to strike—strike once and swiftly—and smash us. He will expose us to Heloise Reys. That is why he is so confident. His sort do not taunt for the mere sport of the thing.”
Clement smiled grimly, appreciating the acuteness with which Mr. Neuburg had sized up the situation. Mr. Neuburg, also, was no fool.
“Heloise will not speak with him,” said the woman.
“He will speak with her. It will come to the same in the end. Oh, yes, I tell you that is what he will do. He is not a man to miss chances.”
“We will prevent that,” said the woman.