“I was misled by the newspapers,” she said, simply, as she stood with her back against the grey rocks. “Had I not believed that you had lost your life in the Seine I should not have married Lord Bracondale.”
“Deceived him, you mean, not married him,” he said harshly. “Well, I haven’t much time to wait. Besides, that governess of yours may come back. It won’t be nice for that little girl to be taken from you, will it?” he said. “But when Bracondale knows, that’s what will happen.”
“Never. He is not cruel and inhuman, like you, Ralph!” she responded, bitterly.
“I’m merely asking for what is due to me. I find that another man has usurped my place, and I want my price.”
“And that is—what?” she asked, after a few minutes’ pause, looking him straight in the face.
“Five thousand, and this interesting letter is yours.”
“Impossible!” she cried. “You might as well ask me for the crown of England.”
“Look here,” he said, putting out his hand towards her, but she shrank from his touch—the touch of a hand stained with the blood of Richard Harborne.
“No. I won’t hurt you,” he laughed, believing that she stood in fear of him. “I want nothing but the cash-money. I’ll call at Monplaisir this evening for it. By Jove!” he added. “That’s a nice, comfortable house of yours. You’ve been very happy there, both of you, I suppose—eh?”