"It's that or the money," he answered, "you can take your choice."
"I tell you I haven't got the money."
"What you tell me doesn't cut any ice, kid; it's what I tell you, and that is—now listen—this is your last chance—either you give me what I want—you understand—or I walk straight out of here and put that letter in the postoffice. Now, then."
He stood before her, insolent, pitiless, holding the letter addressed to Scotland Yard.
Hester moistened her lips and began to speak in a low voice. She realized that the crisis had come. This was, perhaps, the most important moment of her life.
"I admit I've done wrong, Anton," she said. "I didn't play fair with you, but—I had a reason that——" she looked at his cruel mouth and cynical eyes and turned away in despair. "I guess you wouldn't understand the reason."
"I understand the reason, all right," he sneered; "you thought you could get away with my share of the coin and you fell down."
"No, that wasn't the reason. I meant to keep straight, Anton. When I got on that train from Paris I had cut out crooked work, I swear I had. I was going back to New York to see my sister Rosalie. She's sick and——"
"Never mind your sister Rosalie. You stole that purse." He poured out another drink of whiskey and tossed it down, while she pleaded dumbly with her beautiful dark eyes. "And you've lied to me all along." He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "You're a smooth article, Hester. You say you didn't land that money. Maybe you didn't. The chances are you did, but suppose you didn't? Then where do I come in? I get the grand laugh all around, is that it? No, no, girlie, if I don't get my half of that five thousand pounds, then, as sure as you're standing there, I get you."
"You'll never get me." She shrank away in disgust and defiance.