She brings down her eyes to his, calm and serene as before. “Quite a romance. But, as yet, we are no farther than when we started. You have given me no proof.”
“Romance, eh? Well, like many romances, it may have a tragic ending. I have two witnesses. You remember the man you saw following you in the crowd at King Williamstown?”
Again Lilian grows ashy white. It was something more than instinct, then. And, like a flash, she remembers the troubled look which had come over her lover’s face when they met the man on the road during their ride, and how the two had been conversing under her window that last Sunday morning. Doubtless the fellow had been trying to trade on his knowledge. Merciful heavens! That ruffian—and Arthur in his power!
“Yes, I see you do. Now for the other. You don’t suppose Anita de Castro would spare him?”
Lilian gives an imperceptible shudder. “All this may, or may not be,” she replies. “But in the former event, it all happened years ago, and the bare word of these people would go for nothing here. The idea is absurd.”
“Ha, ha, ha! Really I shall have to retract what I said just now about your having a judicial mind,” sneers Truscott. “The bare word of these people would go for just this much here. It would make out a strong prima facie case for the committal of this precious scoundrel—bail refused, of course—pending the making of inquiries and the procuring of more witnesses at Zanzibar, when he would be put upon his trial for piracy—piracy in its worst phase, mind—and murder. What do you think of that, Lilian Strange? In either case a conviction is certain, and in either case with the same result—the rope. So that is the fate in store for our gallows-bird before six months are over—a dance on nothing—and I shall get a pass to go into the gaol-yard and witness the fun.”
He has risen and is standing before her, his features working with a livid rage that is absolutely devilish. Suddenly the full, awful force of the situation sweeps across Lilian’s mind, and with a low cry, like that of a stricken animal, and a shrinking motion, she drops her face into her hands.
“Ah, good God! Spare him!” she moans. “Why will you harm him? He never injured you!”
Heaven help her! She has let down her guard, and the enemy is prompt to rush in over it. From that moment she is completely at his mercy.
“Never injured me? What is she dreaming of? Good heavens! hasn’t he robbed me of you—of you? Isn’t that enough?” is the harsh, pitiless reply. “Ha, ha! Six months about will do it. It’ll be winter then—June or July. The mornings are cold then. Perhaps, as a last kind act, I’ll give the poor wretch a ‘nip’ out of my flask, before he’s swung off, just to keep his spirits up, you know.”