“Yes; I repeat it. I have overheard more than one of your interesting conversations, and am quite aware of your nefarious intention. You are using your beauty to lure him to his ruin.”
“Quite heroic!” sneered Pierre. “This is indeed interesting.”
“Before I have finished you’ll probably find it more interesting, and to your cost,” he replied fiercely. Then, turning to mademoiselle, he said: “You think I fear you, but you make a huge mistake. When we last met you threatened me with exposure if I dare tell him what I knew of your past.”
“I did, and I mean it!” she screamed, with an imprecation in French. “Thwart me, and I’ll show you no mercy.”
“Then you will have an opportunity of exhibiting your vindictiveness,” he observed calmly.
“What do you mean? If self-conceit did not furnish its own buoyancy, some men would never be able to carry their load.”
“I mean that before to-morrow Hugh Trethowen will be upon his guard; he will understand the deep and complicated game you and your jail-birds of Montmartre are playing.”
“You—you dare not breathe a word to him.”
She spoke defiantly, her lips compressed, and her hands tightly clenched.
“Spare yourself,” he replied, waving his hand deprecatingly. “Threats are utterly useless. I am determined to acquaint him with your cunning plot.”