Without looking up, he made the motion of counting money into the palm of his hand. She lowered her eyes slightly to observe this bit of pantomime, but returned them to his face at once. Then, in a mere breath: “How do you know anything about him?” she asked, concealing her puzzled alarm. “What has it got to do with you?” “Everything,” was Ricardo's concise answer, in a low, emphatic whisper. He reflected that this girl was really his best hope. Out of the unfaded impression of past violence there was growing the sort of sentiment which prevents a man from being indifferent to a woman he has once held in his arms--if even against her will--and still more so if she has pardoned the outrage. It becomes then a sort of bond. He felt positively the need to confide in her--a subtle trait of masculinity, this almost physical need of trust which can exist side by side with the most brutal readiness of suspicion. “It's a game of grab--see?” he went on, with a new inflection of intimacy in his murmur. He was looking straight at her now. “That fat, tame slug of a gin-slinger, Schomberg, put us up to it.” So strong is the impression of helpless and persecuted misery, that the girl who had fought down a savage assault without faltering could not completely repress a shudder at the mere sound of the abhorred name. Ricardo became more rapid and confidential: “He wants to pay him off--pay both of you, at that; so he told me. He was hot after you. He would have given all he had into those hands of yours that have nearly strangled me. But you couldn't, eh? Nohow--what?” He paused. “So, rather than--you followed a gentleman?” He noticed a slight movement of her head and spoke quickly. “Same here--rather than be a wage-slave. Only these foreigners aren't to be trusted. You're too good for him. A man that will rob his best chum?” She raised her head. He went on, well pleased with his progress, whispering hurriedly: “Yes. I know all about him. So you may guess how he's likely to treat a woman after a bit!” He did not know that he was striking terror into her breast now. Still the grey eyes remained fixed on him unmovably watchful, as if sleepy under the white forehead. She was beginning to understand. His words conveyed a definite, dreadful meaning to her mind, which he proceeded to enlighten further in a convinced murmur. “You and I are made to understand each other. Born alike, bred alike, I guess. You are not tame. Same here! You have been chucked out into this rotten world of 'yporcrits. Same here!” Her stillness, her appalled stillness, wore to him an air of fascinated attention. He asked abruptly: “Where is it?” She made an effort to breathe out: “Where's what?” His tone expressed excited secrecy. “The swag--plunder--pieces. It's a game of grab. We must have it; but it isn't easy, and so you will have to lend a hand. Come! is it kept in the house?”