“Will you loose my wrist?” cried Marjorie, in a low, angry voice.
“No—not till I like.”
“Am I to call for assistance and have you punished, sir?”
“If you like,” he said mockingly. “There, that will do. What’s the good of all this nonsense? Don’t play with me. I say you’re a lady—a beautiful lady—and I never saw a woman I liked half so well. Look here; come along with me. I’ll be like your dog, and do everything you ask me. I’ll kill him if you tell me, and Judith Hayle, too. There, you wouldn’t find one of your sort ready like that.”
Frantic with dread, Marjorie looked wildly round as she strove to free her wrist.
“Why, what a struggling little thing you are,” he whispered. “Can’t you see that I like you, and wouldn’t hurt you for the world? What’s the good of holding off like this? No one can see you; there isn’t anybody within a couple of miles of where we are, and you promised me another kiss.”
“Let me go,” cried Marjorie hoarsely. “I did not mean it. I was half wild when I said that to you. Look here; take my watch and my rings, and I have some money here. I did not mean all that. Let go or I will call for help.”
“Well,” he said coolly, “call for help. I’m not afraid; you are, and you won’t call—I know better than that. Look here, you know what you said.”
She looked sharply round and shuddered.
“Yes,” she said huskily, “but I was mad and foolish then. It was in an angry fit. I didn’t mean it.”