Mr. Travers gave a start also, and the hand which had been busy with
his left whisker went into the pocket of his jacket, as though he
had plucked out something worth keeping. He made a quick step toward
Lingard.
"I don't see my way to utilize your services," he said, with cold
finality.
Lingard, grasping his beard, looked down at him thoughtfully for a short
time.
"Perhaps it's just as well," he said, very slowly, "because I did not
offer my services. I've offered to take you on board my brig for a
few days, as your only chance of safety. And you asked me what were
my motives. My motives! If you don't see them they are not for you to
know."
And these men who, two hours before had never seen each other, stood
for a moment close together, antagonistic, as if they had been life-long
enemies, one short, dapper and glaring upward, the other towering
heavily, and looking down in contempt and anger.
Mr. d'Alcacer, without taking his eyes off them, bent low over the deck
chair.
"Have you ever seen a man dashing himself at a stone wall?" he asked,
confidentially.
"No," said Mrs. Travers, gazing straight before her above the slow
flutter of the fan. "No, I did not know it was ever done; men burrow
under or slip round quietly while they look the other way."
"Ah! you define diplomacy," murmured d'Alcacer.
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