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172 The eyes of the Portuguese glittered. He was more than half inclined to believe the diver, though with him the wish was father to the thought. At this nocturnal rendezvous on the night when the last moon was new, Isa had spoken of many pearls that Chester Trent was finding; and he swore he had actually seen them, anticipating that would earn him an extra glass of toddy, which it did.

"You fetch me um pearls and I give you three four plenty bottles," Moniz said, extending all his fingers to indicate the extent of his generosity. "What name, eh?"

"Me bring um pearls one night," the black agreed, after a moment's reflection, meaning one night hence, or in other words, at that hour on the morrow. "Me want um knife—plenty too much big knife," he added with cold-blooded forethought.

A sinister expression swept over the trader's face. He went below and returned a few moments later with a murderous looking weapon, which he handed to the diver.

"You kill, eh?" Moniz asked, unmoved.

Isa grunted.

"Don't forget Marster Keith," the trader said with sudden fury. "He kill you if you no kill him."

Isa made a curious grimace, twisting his ugly face up at one side, and passed the sharp blade in front of his own throat to illustrate his intentions.