The man's eyes were perhaps the worst part of him--dull, red, and bloated, full of a certain ferocious cowardliness. They were the eyes of a man who drank to excess. The red rims twitched.
"None of that with me," he growled. "Do you know who I am, Countess Lalage? I am Leon Lalage, Count of the Holy Roman Empire, and your husband. Incomparable woman, you cannot alter that fact. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, till death do us part!"
Death was near parting them now if the gleam in Leona Lalage's eyes meant anything. She would have given half her splendour, years of her life, to see that man lying dead at her feet. If she could have slain him and safely disposed of his body she would have done so.
"How did you get here?" she asked curtly. "How did you find me out?"
The man laughed silently, horribly, his body twisting as if set on wires.
"Never mind that," he said hoarsely. "I did find you out, and here I am. Oh, it was a cunning plot of yours--so near and yet so far away. And as much brandy as I could drink so that I might drink myself to death, and after that perhaps a handsome monument testifying to my virtues. But I'm not going to stand it any more, I'm not going back there."
No reply for a moment, nothing but a quick heaving of the broad bosom, a livid play like summer lightning in the dark eyes. The man lighted a cigarette and puffed it noisily.
"I've got you, my lady," he said hoarsely. "Last time we parted you were not so comfortable as you are now, a troisième and a few francs per day out of the cards when the police were complaisant. Here you have everything. There are a score of things that I could pawn for enough to keep me going for months. Ma foi, but you must be very rich."
"I have not £20 of ready money in the world."
"Give me carte blanche and I will put that right for you. I bear no malice. Reverse the positions and I shall do my best to put you out of the way. But I am not going back there any more."