“I do not seek such a catastrophe,” she observed, coolly.
“But you an urging me to it,” he replied, with savage fierceness. “No—no—I will not surrender my gold: you cannot compel me!”
“It is for you to decide whether you will adopt that alternative, or pass hence in a few minutes to the nearest station-house,” responded Mrs. Mortimer, her voice being still characterised by a calmness and deliberation indicative of the most implacable sternness of purpose.
“The station-house!” moaned Torrens, with a cold shudder: then, again becoming dreadfully excited, he exclaimed, “I will die first—and you shall perish also! Yes—I will murder you, and afterwards——”
“This is child’s play!” said Mrs. Mortimer, laughing at the threat, as she took up a knife which lay upon the table. “Advance towards me another pace—and I will plunge this sharp blade into your heart. The treasure, which is no doubt concealed somewhere in the room, will then fall into my hands all the same.”
“You are determined to rifle me of all I possess—to plunder me—to make me penniless!” cried Torrens, falling back in his seat, and giving way to his despair. “Can nothing move you? But, listen—listen: I will give you half—yes—one-half of the whole amount——”
“I came not to receive terms, but to dictate them,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer. “And now reflect well upon your position, old man;—and remember also that your wild ravings may draw listeners to the door, and your guilt will be no longer a secret existing between you and me. Then, naught—naught can save your neck from the halter!”
“My God! she speaks truly,” murmured Torrens, bewildered by the dreadful thoughts that rushed to his brain as the woman spoke so calmly and deliberately of the ignominious death which might overtake him: “yes—she speaks truly!” he repeated; “and yet, if I give up all—surrender everything—on what am I to live? how am I to sustain my miserable existence?”
“You had no kind thought—no compassion for me, when you had friends to help you, and I was banished across the wide ocean,” said Mrs. Mortimer: “you cared not what became of me at that time, Torrens—and I have now no pity, no sympathy for you! I am aware that you loathe and detest me;—but your aversion surpasses not that which I entertain for you. There we are well matched: it is however in our relative positions that I have gained the ascendancy and can wield the authority of a despot. My crime is of old date, and has been expiated by many long, long years of horrible exile and servitude in a penal colony: your crime is new—the blood is scarcely dry upon your hands—your victim is scarcely cold in his grave—and your guilt can only be expiated on the scaffold.”
“Spare me—spare me,” groaned the wretched man, clasping his hands together in an anguish which, assassin as he was, would have moved any other than the soul-hardened, implacable Mrs. Mortimer.