houlders; he
even looked at his hand. He didn't put it in his pocket, however. Mr.
Jones, glued against the wall, watched him raise both his hands to
the ends of his horizontal moustaches, and answered the note of
interrogation in his steady eyes.

"A matter of prudence," said Mr. Jones in his natural hollow tones, and
with a face of deathlike composure. "A man of your free life has surely
perceived that. You are a much talked-about man, Mr. Heyst--and though,
as far as I understand, you are accustomed to employ the subtler
weapons of intelligence, still I can't afford to take any risks of
the--er--grosser methods. I am not unscrupulous enough to be a match for
you in the use of intelligence; but I assure you, Mr. Heyst, that in
the other way you are no match for me. I have you covered at this
very moment. You have been covered ever since you entered this room.
Yes--from my pocket."

During this harangue Heyst looked deliberately over his shoulder,
stepped back a pace, and sat down on the end of the camp bedstead.
Leaning his elbow on one knee, he laid his cheek in the palm of his hand
and seemed to meditate on what he should say next. Mr. Jones, planted
against the wall, was obviously waiting for some sort of overture.
As nothing came, he resolved to speak himself; but he hesitated. For,
though he considered that the most difficult step had been taken, he
said to himself that every stage of progress required great caution,
lest the man in Ricardo's phraseology, should "start to prance"--which
would be most inconvenient. He fell back on a previous statement:

"And I am a person to be reckoned with."

The other man went on looking at the floor, as if he were alone in the
room. There was a pause.

"You have heard of me, then?" Heyst said at length, looking up.

"I should think so! We have been staying at Schomberg's hotel."

"Schom--" Heyst choked on the word.

"What's the matter, Mr. Heyst?"

"Nothing. Nausea," Heyst said resignedly. He resumed his former attitude
of meditative indifference. "What is this reckoning you are talking
about?" he asked after a time, in the quietest possible tone. "I don't
know you."

"It's obvious that we belong to the same--social sphere," began Mr.
Jones with languid irony. Inwardly he was as watchful as he could be.
"Something has driven you out--the originality of your ideas, perhaps.
Or your tastes."

Mr Jones indulged in one of his ghastly smiles. In repose his features
h