As she stands there, silent and thoughtful, a servant knocks at the door and enters with a telegram.
She hastily seizes it and reads the contents, and all the blood seems to forsake her face. Trembling, she sinks into a chair.
"If all should be lost even now?" she thinks, and her eyes turn in momentary appeal to the stern. cold face of the Count. "I—I will think of what you have said," she falters. "But, believe me, you are wrong when you think Keith Athelstone is anything to me. He is not; he never will be. As for his life I would not spare it if I could."
"What?" he cries, amazed.
"He—he has insulted me," stammers Lady Jean. "I cannot tell you—I cannot explain; only if you love me you will avenge me—not by his death, that I would not say .... I wish you to wound him, and in such a manner that the issue may be fatal—or otherwise—but in any case that it may be uncertain enough to allow of a messenger being sent to England to—a—a friend of his. Do you understand?"
"That I am to be a tool for you? Perfectly, madame. And my reward?"
"You shall ask for it when you have done my bidding," she murmurs softly, and holds out her hand for the clasp of that one whose stains of blood-guiltiness are to receive yet another addition, at her bidding.
He takes hers, and bends down and presses his lips upon it fervently. "I will do your will," he says; "he shall live to suffer. But, madame, remember, I am no fool to be trifled with. If you fail in your part of the bargain it will be at your own peril. Neither man nor woman has ever baulked me of my will, who has not lived to rue it. You may have fooled a score of men, but you shall not fool me! Love like mine may be play to rouse, but it is death when roused."
She looks him calmly in the face. "I have no intention of deceiving you. Promise me that Keith Athelstone shall have but a few days' life left—and——"
Her glance promises the rest. It has all the intoxication, the responsive meaning, that can inflame men's passions—that has ever swayed them to her will. It sways him now.