“Yes,” he said; “and you hate Judy Hayle, too, like the gipsy women hate sometimes. Why don’t you stop it?”
“Because I am helpless,” she said bitterly. “Loose my arm. I knew it: you are a coward.”
“Am I?” he said, with an ugly smile. “Is this a trap?”
“If you think so, let it be,” she said contemptuously; and she tried again to shake her arm free, but the grasp upon it tightened.
“Perhaps I am a coward,” he said; “but I will. He wouldn’t marry her then, and it would be serving him out. Not for nothing, though,” he added, with a laugh. “What will you give me?”
“Pah!” she said contemptuously; “how much do you want?”
He laughed and leaned forward, gazing full in her face.
“Perhaps I shall get into trouble again for it,” he said, “and be shut up for a year—perhaps for more. It’s to play your game as well as mine, and I must be paid well.”
“Well, I will pay you,” she said. “Tell me what you want.”
“A kiss,” he said; and before she could realise what he had said, his left arm was about her waist, and he held her tightly to him. “A kiss from a lady who is handsomer than Judy Hayle,” he whispered.