“I would not bring forward those arguments except as a last resource,” went on Victor Durnovo, with the deliberate cruelty of a tyrant. “I would first point out the advantages; a fourth share in the Simiacine scheme would make you a rich man—above suspicion—independent of the gossip of the market-place.”
Maurice Gordon winced visibly, and his eyes wavered as if he were about to give way to panic.
“You could retire and go home to England—to a cooler climate. This country might get too hot for your constitution—see?”
Durnovo came back into the centre of the room and stood by the writing-table. His attitude was that of a man holding a whip over a cowering dog.
He took up his hat and riding-whip with a satisfied little laugh, as if the dog had cringingly done his bidding.
“Besides,” he said, with a certain defiance of manner, “I may succeed without any of that—eh?”
“Yes,” Gordon was obliged to admit with a gulp, as if he were swallowing his pride, and he knew that in saying the word he was degrading his sister—throwing her at this man's feet as the price of his honour.
With a half-contemptuous nod Victor Durnovo turned, and went away to keep his appointment with Meredith.