'I don't understand you. I have nothing to do with your plots.'
She strung her muscles and stood up; but Mrs. Strangeways, scarcely moving, still looked at her with baleful directness.
'It would be a shame to lose our sport for want of a little money. I must ask you to help, really.'
'I can't—and won't.'
'I feel sure you will—rather than have anything happen. You are leading, I hear, a most exemplary life; I should be so sorry to disturb it. But really, you must help in our undertaking.'
There was a very short silence.
'A week, even a fortnight hence, will do. No great sum; two or three hundred pounds. We won't say any more about it; I depend upon you. In a fortnight's time will do.'
'Do you imagine,' exclaimed Alma, on a high, quivering note, 'that I am in your power?'
'Hush! It is very dangerous to talk like that in a hotel.—Think over what I have said. You will find me here. Think, and remember. You will be quite satisfied with the results, but your help is indispensable.'
Therewith Mrs. Strangeways turned to the open window. Looking at her elaborately plaited yellow hair, her thin neck, her delicate fingers just touching the long throat, Alma felt instinct of savagery; in a flash of the primitive mind, she saw herself spring upon her enemy, tear, bite, destroy. The desire still shook her as she stood outside in the corridor, waiting to descend. And in the street she walked like a somnambulist, with wide eyes, straight on. Curious glances at length recalled her to herself; she turned hurriedly from the crowded highway.