"In the devil's name, woman, who are you?"
Latour had crossed the space between them in a hasty stride or two, and his fingers were tightly round the woman's wrist.
"What right—"
"Who are you? Answer."
For a moment longer she was defiant, even made a feeble struggle to free herself, but the man's eyes were upon her and she was compelled to look into them. Anger blazed in them, anger was in every line of his set face. She had seen this man before, knew he was Raymond Latour, knew his power, and she was afraid.
"I am Pauline Vaison," she said in a low tone.
CHAPTER XVI
THE TAVERN AT THE CHAT ROUGE