"You little devil!" he said hoarsely. "I've got a notion to—to——" He began to breathe quickly through dilating nostrils, while his beady eyes burned on her.
"To what?" she challenged him.
He reached forward quickly and caught her by the arm.
"See here, now, I'm going to talk to you—straight." He drew her close to him, so close that he could feel every line of her lithe, slim figure. "You know what I said last night, kid. Well, I meant it. I'm crazy about you, and, by God, I'm going to get something out of this." He held her, struggling against him, and pressed his mouth down upon her unwilling lips.
"Wait!" she panted. "Did you—did you post that letter to Scotland Yard?"
"Why—er—no," he answered, and she knew that he was lying by the way his eyes shifted.
Once more, mad with desire, the chauffeur tried to kiss her, but with a sudden effort Hester freed herself and darted toward the door.
"I guess you've made trouble enough for one day, Mr. Anton," she laughed mockingly. "And remember, boy, if a Scotland Yard detective shows up here to-day it's you he'll take away, not me."
It was an empty threat, but she made it bravely as she tripped away, and, somehow, her words filled Anton with a vague foreboding.
"Damn that girl!" he muttered as he strode toward the garage. And presently his anger changed to black rage when, on searching his pocket for Baxter's important cablegram, he found that it was gone. Little liar! She had tricked him again. She had let him kiss her with the deliberate purpose of stealing those papers, and then she had laughed at him. Very well; he would show her. He was glad now he had notified Scotland Yard. He hoped they did send a man, and he swore this Storm girl should pay for what she had done. He would certainly make her pay.