"That fiddle's got too much
in it to waste it."
"Mi Duvel! Mi Duvel!" gasped the Romany in his fury.
"You can say that as much as you like, but if you play any more of your
monkey tricks here, my Paganini, I will wring your neck," Ingolby
returned, his six feet of solid flesh making a movement of menace.
"And look," he added, "since you are here, and I said what I meant, that
I'd help you to get your own, I'll keep my word. But don't talk in
damned riddles. Talk white men's language. You said that Gabriel
Druse's daughter was your wife. Explain what you meant, and no
nonsense."
The Romany made a gesture of acquiescence. "She was made mine according
to Romany law by the River Starzke seventeen years ago. I was the son of
Lemuel Fawe, rightful King of all the Romanys. Gabriel Druse seized the
headship, and my father gave him three thousand pounds that we should
marry, she and I, and so bring the headship to the Fawes again when
Gabriel Druse should die; and so it was done by the River Starzke in the
Roumelian country."
Ingolby winced, for the man's words rang true. A cloud came over his
face, but he said nothing. Jethro saw the momentary advantage.
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