"I mean that our interview is not at an end!"
The menace of her eyes glittered upon him. If her strength of body had been equal to it at that moment, she would have leapt forward and strangled him with her bare hands. Knowledge of her own peril, of the Nemesis that was sweeping upon her, had not yet entered her disordered mind.
John made—in pursuance of his prearranged plan of action—no effort to stay her as she went towards the door. But as Mrs. Beecher Monmouth paused and cast a final look at him, a sudden doubt crept into her eyes. For John had gone to the window. He appeared no longer to be occupied with her. His back was towards her, and presently he lifted a whistle to his lips and blew two short, shrill blasts.
A transformation passed over Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's face that was startling. The colour flowed from her cheeks. Her lips seemed suddenly to become bloodless.
"Why do you do that?"
John turned upon her slowly. There was no pity in his eyes.
"When I did it," he answered, grimly, "I was thinking of the Malta, and two hundred fine fellows who died at your hands. I am thinking now of other things—of the Polidor and her scores of non-combatant passengers who were drowned by your machinations.... You have had a long run for your money, but at last——"
He stopped—a sound came to him, a tramp of heavy booted men advancing in the passage. Some one pushed open the door, and a corporal—a tall, grim-looking fellow—appeared on the threshold.
"Is that you, Davis?"
"Yes, sir!"