“I don't think you will do that,” answered the girl steadily. “Whatever your power over Maurice may be, it is not strong enough for that; you overrate it.”
“You think so?” he sneered.
“I am sure of it.”
Durnovo glanced hastily round the room in order to make sure that they were not overheard.
“Suppose,” he said, in a low, hissing voice, “that I possess knowledge that I have only to mention to one or two people to make this place too hot for Maurice Gordon. If he escaped the fury of the natives, it would be difficult to know where he could go to. England would be too hot for him. They wouldn't have him there; I could see to that. He would be a ruined man—an outcast—execrated by all the civilised world.”
He was watching her face all the while. He saw the colour leave even her lips, but they were steady and firm. A strange wonder crept into his heart. This woman never flinched. There was some reserved strength within herself upon which she was now drawing. His dealings had all been with half-castes—with impure blood and doubtful descendants of a mixed ancestry. He had never fairly roused a pure-bred English man or woman, and suddenly he began to feel out of his depth.
“What is your knowledge?” asked Jocelyn in a coldly measured voice.
“I think you had better not ask that; you will be sorry afterwards. I would rather that you thought quietly over what I have told you. Perhaps, on second thoughts, you will see your way to give me some—slight hope. I should really advise it.”
“I did not ask your advice. What is your knowledge?”
“You will have it?” he hissed.