Kāra smiled with quiet scorn.
“It is quite refreshing to witness your indignation,” said he. “If it were equaled by your honesty, you would have no reason to fear me.”
“Nor do I fear you now,” retorted Lord Roane, defiantly. “Do your worst, you infamous nigger, for you cannot bribe me in any way to abet your shameful proposals.”
Kāra reddened at the epithet, but did not reply until he had risen and started to move toward the door. Then he half turned and said:
“It will enable you to appreciate your danger better, Lord Roane, if I tell you that I am but the instrument of an Egyptian woman named Hatatcha, whose life and happiness you once carelessly ruined. She did not forget, and her vengeance against you and yours will be terrible, believe me, unless you engage me to defeat it instead of accomplishing it. My personal interest induces me to bargain with you. What do you say, my lord? Shall we discuss this subject more fully, or do you wish me to go?”
Roane was staring at him with affrighted eyes. A thousand recollections flashed through his mind at the mention of Hatatcha’s name, attended by a thousand terrors as he remembered his treatment of her. So lost was he in fear and wonder that Kāra had to speak again.
“Shall I go, my lord?”
“Yes,” was the answer. It seemed to be wrenched from the old man’s throbbing breast by a generosity that conquered his cowardice.
Kāra frowned. He was disappointed. But further argument was useless, and he went away, leaving Roane fairly stunned by the disclosures of the interview.