Steve scuttled across the room. He was crying helplessly, and pulled his coat sleeve across his nose as he went to the door.
"Now," McNab said genially, "you sit there, Deirdre, and we can talk."
Deirdre took the chair Steve had left. She sat very stiff and straight in it. She knew what was coming. There were fear and loathing in her eyes. But McNab only saw how great and dark they were, how red the curve of her lips, how full of vigour and grace the lines of her strong, young body.
"You know what'll happen if it's known Farrel's an escaped convict?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Port Arthur, irons 'n the rest of it! Well, nobody need know, lest I like. There's a couple of lads can prove who Steve and y'r father are, but they won't—lest I like."
"What are you going to like? That's what I want to know," Deirdre cried, her hands gripping the arms of the chair.
"Depends on you, my dear!"
He leant forward.
There was appeal in her eyes. But her eagerness, her hunted wild-bird air only stirred in McNab a lust for the capture and taming of her.