"Well?"
The single word came clear and distinct, but it would be difficult to describe the scorn which Joyce managed to pack into it. It had some effect on George.
"You have just got to do what I want—that's all," he exclaimed angrily. "I leave England tonight, and unless you come with me I shall go straight from here and ring up Scotland Yard. You can make your choice now. You either come down to Southampton with me this evening, or Lyndon goes back to Dartmoor tomorrow."
"Then you were lying when you said you were anxious to help him?"
With a mighty effort George apparently regained some control over his tongue.
"No, I wasn't, Joyce," he said. "God knows I'm sorry for the poor devil—I always have been; but there's nothing in the world that matters to me now except you. I—I lost my temper when you said you wouldn't come. You didn't mean it, did you? Lyndon can never be anything to you; he is dead to all of us. At the best he can only be a skulking convict hiding from the police in South America or somewhere. You come with me; you shall never be sorry for it. I've plenty of money, Joyce; and I'll give you the best time a woman ever had."
"And if I refuse?" asked Joyce quietly.
It was evident from the sound that George had taken a step towards her.
"Then Lyndon will go back to Dartmoor and stop there till he rots and dies."
There was a short pause, and then very clearly and deliberately Joyce gave her answer.