‘I heard you, I heard you,’ she exclaimed. ‘Get back; you mustn’t come here.’
There was a desperate and dangerous look on her face, and her form shook with scarcely controlled passionate energy.
‘Now see here, Miss Spencer,’ Racksole said calmly, ‘I guess we’ve had enough of this fandango. You’d better get up and clear out, or we’ll just have to drag you off.’
He went calmly up to her, the lantern in his hand. Without another word she struck the knife into his arm, and the lantern fell extinguished. Racksole gave a cry, rather of angry surprise than of pain, and retreated a few steps. In the darkness they could still perceive the glint of her eyes.
‘I told you you mustn’t come here,’ the woman said. ‘Now get back.’
Racksole positively laughed. It was a queer laugh, but he laughed, and he could not help it. The idea of this woman, this bureau clerk, stopping his progress and that of Prince Aribert by means of a bread-knife aroused his sense of humour. He struck a match, relighted the candle, and faced Miss Spencer once more.
‘I’ll do it again,’ she said, with a note of hard resolve.
‘Oh, no, you won’t, my girl,’ said Racksole; and he pulled out his revolver, cocked it, raised his hand.
‘Put down that plaything of yours,’ he said firmly.
‘No,’ she answered.