There’s a scheme on to get the stuff, when who should come on the scene but our little party, and that makes ’em all nervous, ’cause Monty’s a bad man to be up against.  Remember:  she claimed that she knows Monty and he knows her.  She means by that that he knows she’s a desperado, and she thinks he’ll draw the line at a trip that promises murder and blackmail and such like dirty work.  So she puts a scare into us with a view to our throwing a scare into him.  If I scare any one, it’s going to be that dame herself.  I’ll not tell Monty a thing!”

“How about Coutlass the Greek?” said I.  “D’you suppose he’s her accomplice?”

“Maybe!  One of her dupes perhaps!  I suspect she’ll suck him dry of information and cast him off like a lemon rind.  I dare bet she’s using him.  She can’t use me!  Shall you tell Monty?”

“No,” I said.  “Not unless we both agreed.”

He nodded.  “You and I weren’t born to what they call the purple.  We’re no diplomatists; but we get each other’s meaning.”

“Here come Monty and Fred,” said I.  “Is my neck still bloody?  No, yours doesn’t show.”

We met them at the stairhead, and Monty did not seem to notice anything.

“Fred has composed a song to the moonlight on Zanzibar roadstead while you fellows were merely after-dinner mundane.  D’you suppose the landlord ’ud make trouble if we let him sing it?”

“Let’s hope so!” said Will.  “I’m itching for a row like they say drovers in Monty’s country itch for mile-stones!  Let Fred warble.  I’ll fight whoever comes!”

Monty eyed him and me swiftly, but made no comment.

“Bill’s homesick!” said Fred.  “The U. S. eagle wants its Bowery!  We’ll soothe the fowl with thoughts of other things—­where’s the concertina?”

“No, no, Fred, that’ll be too much din!”

Monty made a grab for the instrument, but Fred raised it above his head and brought it down between his knees with chords that crashed like wedding bells.  Then he changed to softer, languorous music, and when he had picked out an air to suit his mood, sat down and turned art loose to do her worst.

He has a good voice.  If he would only not pull such faces, or make so sure that folk within a dozen blocks can hear him, he might pass for a professional.

“Music suggestive of moonlight!” he said, and began: 

        “The sentry palms stand motionless.  Masts move against
the sky. 
        With measured creak of curving spars dhows gently to the
                jeweled stars
        Rock out a lullaby.

        “Silver and black sleeps Zanzibar.  The moonlit ripples
croon
        Soft songs of loves that perfect are, long tales of red-
        lipped spoils of war,
        And you—­you smile, you moon! 
        For I think that beam on the placid sea
        That splashes, and spreads, and dips, and gleams,
        That dances and glides till it comes to me
        Out of infinite sky, is the path of dreams,
        And down that lane the memories run
        Of all that’s wild beneath the sun!”