But now he raised his eyes from these
things and looked across at Mike, mutely asking what he thought of
matters. He saw Mike stealing across the floor, looking very, very hard
at--something.
Mute as Neddy's inquiry was, Mike seemed somehow aware of it. He raised
his hand, as though to enjoin silence, and then pointed it in front of
him, raised to the level of his head. Neddy turned round to look in the
direction indicated. He saw the throne and its silent occupant--the
waxen-faced old man who sat there, seeming to preside over the scene,
whose head was turned towards him, whose closed eyes would open directly
on his face if their lids were lifted.
Neddy feared no living man; so he was accustomed to boast, and with good
warrant. But was that man living? How came he up there? And what had he
to do with the queer-shaped hole that had all that gold in it? And the
thing he held in his own hand? Did that belong to the old man up there?
Had he flung it into the hole? Or (odd fancies began to assail big Neddy)
had he left it behind him when he got out? And would he, by chance, come
down to look for it?
Mike's hand, stretched out from his body towards his friend, now again
enjoined silence.
Pages:
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200