“I will kill him, that is all,--kill him when he leaves this house.” “I have no objection to that,” was the smiling answer. “One rake less in the world is a blessing for all women, honest or--” she fingered her rose caressingly. “Is it one of those who were here to-night!” he demanded. “Perhaps that infernal libertine of a Vicomte de----” “Pray, what have my secrets to do with you?” She faced him scornfully. “This.” He came close to her. “You flatter yourself, ma mignonne, that you guard your secrets very well. So you do from all men but me. But I take leave to tell you that three-fourths of those secrets are already mine.” She sniffed at the rose in the most provoking way. “Yes, I have discovered three-fourths, and----” “The one-fourth that remains you will never discover until I choose.” “Do not be too sure.” “And then?” “You, ma mignonne, you the guest of many men, will be in my power, and you will be glad to do what I wish. Oh, I will not be your cur, your lackey, then, but you will----” She dropped him a curtsey, and walked away to an escritoire, from a drawer in which she took out a piece of paper. “The one-fourth that remains,” she said, holding it up, and offering it to him, “I give it to you, my cur and lackey.” She watched him take it, unfold it, read it. His hand shook, the paper dropped from his fingers, and while he passed his handkerchief over his forehead she put the fragment in the fire. They faced each other in dead silence. She was perfectly calm, but his mouth twitched and his eyes gleamed with an unhallowed fire and with fear. “Are you mad?” he asked at last, “that you confess such a thing to me--me?” “Better to you,” she retorted, “than to that infernal libertine, the Vicomte de Nérac, or that infernal simpleton, Captain Statham, eh? No, mon ami, my reason is this: Now, you, George Onslow, who profess to love me, who would make me your slave, are in my power, and the proof is that I order you to leave this room at once.” “I shall return.” “Then you certainly will be mad.”
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