A sardonic smile touched Blythe's strong, lean face.
"It's Mr. Bothwell's move. If we turned back he would have to stop us; if we continue to Panama he must prevent us from going into the harbor, or his game is up."
"Then what will he do?"
"He'll move, Miss Wallace."
She looked at him, a man of quiet, contained strength, and some sort of vision of what we were to go through flitted before her mind. Her lips were gray and bloodless.
"That dreadful treasure!" she murmured. "Why did we ever come after it?"
A faint sound drew me to my feet and across the room to the stairway. A fat bulk of a man was crouched on the steps about half-way down. He scuttled to his feet at sight of me.
"Good afternoon, Higgins! Just taking a nap on the stairs, I presume," was my ironical greeting.
The color faded from his blotched face.
"No, sir, not as you might say——" He moistened his dry lips with the tip of his tongue and tried again. "Truth is, sir, Hi wanted to ask Miss Wallace what she would like for dinner."