He told his two henchmen to go back to their comrades; then once more he began to walk up and down.
Dorothy studied him carefully, searching his face for something human of which she might take hold. But there was nothing but vulgarity, baseness, and cunning in it. She had only herself to rely on. In the lists formed by the ruins of the great tower, surrounded by a band of scoundrels, commanded by the most implacable of chiefs, watched, coveted, helpless, she had as her unique resource, her subtle intelligence. It was infinitely little, and it was much, since already once before, within the walls of Hillocks Manor, placed in the same situation, and facing the same enemy, she had conquered. It was much because this enemy distrusted himself and so lost some of his advantages.
For the moment he believed himself sure of success; and his attitude displayed all the insolence of one who believes he has nothing to fear.
Their eyes met. He began:
"How pretty she is, the little devil! A morsel fit for a king. It's a pity she detests me." And, drawing nearer, he added: "It really is detestation, Dorothy?"
She recoiled a step. He frowned.
"Yes: I know ... your father.... Bah! Your father was very ill.... He would have died in any case. So it wasn't really I who killed him."
She said:
"And your confederate ... a little while ago?... The false Marquis."
He sneered: