He looked so ill at ease that Miss Marjory felt her attempt to frighten him had been unexpectedly successful.
‘You have come here bent on mischief; you know that as well as I do. You won’t succeed in what you mean to do, and you stand a good chance of finding yourself in a very unpleasant position.’
He gazed at her with an earnestness and anxiety which told her that her words had produced an impression. She had not chosen them with any special care. Her object had been, if possible, to alarm him, and induce him to keep as quiet as he would on the subject of the secret he had discovered. From the expression his face had assumed, she imagined that her random shaft had struck home.
‘He is not very bold,’ she thought. ‘I must make him nervous.’
‘I have not come bent on mischief, Madame,’ he answered gravely, but not timidly. ‘Madame is in error there. I have come to put right a wrong—that is all—to do justice to the helpless and oppressed. If Madame knew all that I do, she would not speak as she now does.’
‘I imagine I know a great deal more than you do, Signor,’ answered Miss Marjory severely; ‘and I am sure I know a great deal more than you think. I know pretty well what idea you have got in your head, and it is entirely wrong. My friend and our host, Mr. Philip Debenham, is the soul of honour. You do not and you cannot understand him. I will give you this assurance, and also this warning. Do not attempt to carry out this plan of yours, for you will never be able to do it. Give it up with a good grace whilst there is yet time, and do not bring upon yourself the ignominy of defeat.’
The dark face looked more dark than ever—more in bewilderment, it seemed, than in anger.
‘Who will defeat me?’ he asked slowly.
‘I will!’ answered Miss Marjory, with all the reckless daring of her nature.
‘You!’ he echoed, looking very hard at her. ‘Why, what can you do?’