“I politely request you to sit down, Miss Rolfe,” he said, never moving a muscle.
Her beautiful face was flushed with resentment and anger, as, standing erect before him, she faced him in open defiance.
“I see no further point in this interview,” was her cool reply. “I will go.”
“I think it would be wiser for you to remain,” he responded in a low, determined voice; “wiser for you to answer my questions.”
“I have already answered them.”
“I wish to know something further,” he said, stirring again in his chair, and waving his hand with a repeated request that she would be re-seated.
“I have nothing to conceal,” was her reply, attempting to smile. “Why should I?”
“Why, indeed,” he said, “I may as well tell you that I have reasons—very strong business reasons—for elucidating this mystery concerning Doctor Petrovitch. To me it involves a question of many thousands of pounds. I have considerable interests out in Servia, as your brother may have explained to you. I must find the Doctor, and the reason I have asked you here to-night is to invoke your aid in assisting me to do so. Can I be more explicit?”
He looked in her face, but a shrewd observer would have known by the wavering smile at the corners of his mouth that he was not speaking the exact truth. There was some trick or motive underlying it all.
Though she did not detect this, she was still undecided. Anger was aroused within her by his commanding manner. His attitude had changed so suddenly that she had been taken thoroughly aback.