Pauline Corsi had not boasted idly of the power of her will.
The guilty lawyer, versed in every art of lying and chicanery, trembled, he scarce knew why, in the presence of this frail girl.
"Do you ask the nature of this motive?" said Pauline.
"I do," he faltered, pouring out a glass of wine. His hand shook so violently that the neck of the decanter rattled against the rim of the glass, and he spilled half the costly liquid as he raised it to his quivering lips.
He had no reason to fear this Frenchwoman—but the strength of her indomitable will had a magnetic power over him, and his brutal nature bowed beneath its force.
"I will tell you, Silas Craig," answered Pauline; "there are some secrets which, once known, give to the person who discovers them a fearful and boundless power over the guilty wretches whom they concern. Secrets that are discovered when least the criminals fear detection. Words that are overheard, and cherished for years by the person who overhears them. Words which have power to drag the guilty to the scaffold; words that can kill. Do you understand me?"
"No."
He spoke doggedly, but sat with his hands clasped upon the arms of his easy-chair, his rat-like eyes almost starting from his head as he gazed at Pauline.
"Think again, Silas Craig," said the Frenchwoman; "surely I have spoken plainly. Can you not understand me?"
"No," he repeated with a terrible oath.