“This is all the money I have at the moment, without drawing a cheque.”
“It’s not enough—not half enough,” he declared in a tone of dissatisfaction, glancing at the clock. “There’s little time to lose. A North German Lloyd boat sails from Southampton for New York this afternoon, and the train leaves Waterloo at noon. This money won’t even buy my passage and necessaries.”
She reflected for an instant, and glanced down at her fragile hands. An instant later, in sheer desperation, she cried—
“Then take my rings!” And twisting them one by one from her fingers, including the antique one of turquoise and diamonds, she laid them, together with her brooch, on the little writing-table where they were standing. “They’re worth at least five thousand francs,” she said. “Take them, sell them, do what you like with them, but never let us meet again.”
Eagerly he took up one—a beautiful diamond half-hoop ring, and glancing at it in admiration, was about to place it in his vest-pocket, when there came a loud rap at the door, and the message-boy, shouting her hotel number, ushered in two men.
Nenci turned quickly towards the door, and shrank back in terror and dismay.
The men who entered were Tristram and Armytage. The face of the latter was dark with determination. He had not expected to find Gemma with a stranger; moreover, the fact that her rings and brooch lay upon the table between her and her visitor puzzled him.
“Ah, dearest!” she cried, rushing towards him, her nervous hands outstretched. “You have come back to me at last—at last!”
Without taking her proffered hands, he looked straight into the sallow, evil face of the Italian. Nenci boldly met his gaze.
“This is the scoundrel who, as I’ve just told you, endeavoured last night to destroy Gemma, myself, and several other persons at Lady Marshfield’s?” Tristram cried, glaring at the black-haired inventor of the terrible engine of death.