Clarice rose and faced her. "He shall not"; and for at least one minute the two women faced one another defiantly. "What can you do?" inquired Zara, at length, and annoyed because she could not sustain the gaze of her visitor.
"I can go to the police, and say that you employed Osip."
"Not knowing that he was Osip," retorted the dancer, her breath coming quick and sharp. "If I had known, I should have handed him over to the authorities."
"Indeed, and what would become of your accusation of Mr. Clarke?"
"I don't accuse Mr. Clarke. He's a bore--at least, he was when I attended his rotten old Sunday School--but I don't say that he is a murderer. However, you can tell the police about Osip, and I'll tell them about Clarke. Then we shall see."
"Very good." Clarice moved towards the door. "There's no more to be said. Good-night."
Zara stood for one moment with clenched hands and a frown on her pretty, babyish face, which could look so strong at times, and which deceived men into thinking her a mere toy-woman. She had not expected Clarice to take her at her word, and thus had lost a move in the game. In spite of her bravado, she had no desire that the Crumel police, or the London detectives, should know about Osip. It would be a good advertisement in one way, and yet, in another, it might do her harm with the managers. She had really been ignorant that the survivor of the famous Purple Fern Triumvirate was acting with her. But who would believe in her innocence, did the fact become public property? With a swift movement she placed herself between Clarice and the door.
"No. I take back what I said. You must not tell the police about Osip--it would do me harm."
"Very good. I'll hold my tongue, if you will be silent about my masquerade in this dress."
"Ah, you are afraid," sneered Zara.