"That is my own secret, and I do not choose to disclose it."
"Neither do I choose to help you out of the scrape you have brought on yourself. Not a dollar will I give you!" retorted Alpine, stung to defiance and rebellion by his matchless assurance.
He did not believe her, and smiled as he answered:
"Oh, yes, you will, for your own sake, my dear sister. Perhaps you think I don't see through your little game; but I do. You're trying to marry Ralph Chainey, the great actor, although he does not care a pin for you. However, you are crafty enough to hook him, I'll be bound—only, he certainly would not look at you again if Kathleen sent your only brother to prison for stealing her diamonds."
Her blue eyes blazed on him with the steely glare of a bitter hate; but she said, almost as if begging him to do better:
"But, Ivan, if we helped you out of this, you would be into some new scrape directly."
"Very likely," he replied, taking insolent pleasure in torturing her, not dreaming she would really turn at bay.
But Alpine was reckless, desperate—ready to give up the fierce contest with an untoward fate. A revengeful longing to punish Ivan for his misdeeds, even at the bitterest cost to herself, assailed her and drove everything else out of her mind. Her eyes flashed, her face grew ashen, and, turning to her mother, she said, in a low, tense voice:
"You see how it is, mamma. If we help him out of this, it will be something else directly. How can we bear the strain for years? Do what we will, he will beggar and disgrace us sooner or later. Why not let the end come now? Let—Kathleen send him to prison for his crime, and we—we—can live it down as best we may."
Every word fell like a drop of ice on the ingrate's heart. Did she mean it? Would they desert him at last, these two?