“See,” he laughed. “I have the telegram!” And before her eyes he tossed it into the fire.
She bent to snatch it from the flame, but he seized her white wrist roughly and threw her backward upon the hearthrug. He had extracted the message from her bag as they had sat together in the darkness of the cab.
Struggling to her feet she screamed for help, and fought frantically with the man who had decoyed her there; fought with the fierce strength of a woman defending her dearest possession, her honour.
She saw how the man’s countenance had changed. There was an evil expression there which held her terrified.
She begged mercy from him, begged wildly upon her knees, but he only laughed in her face in triumph. She saw, now that the telegram was destroyed, that this man who had posed as Frank’s friend could make his vile story entirely complete.
She was helpless in the hands of a man whose very face betrayed his vile unscrupulousness.
In the struggle she felt his hot foetid breath upon her cheek. Her blouse of pale blue crêpe-de-chine was ripped right across the breast as she endeavoured to wrench herself from his grasp.
“Ah! Have mercy on me!” she screamed. “Let me go! Let me go! I’ll give you anything—I—I—I’ll be silent even—if you’ll only let me go! Ah! do—if you are a gentleman!”
But the fellow only laughed again, and held her more tightly.
Her bare chest heaved and fell quickly before him. Her breath came and went.