Jimmie’s lips twitched faintly. “That, too. You’re going to take away my freedom of speech.”
“I’ll do better. I’ll make you retract what you said.” Sarah walked over and half sat on the windowsill. She leaned toward her brother; her expression was a mixture of unholy rapture and plain savagery. “I think, for instance, that it would be terribly nice if you joined the America Forever Committee. I’d like to see you make a few speeches, even, against helping win this war. You surely must have seen some things, if you look back honestly, that make you realize that some people in England don’t like America and would enjoy seeing America crushed.”
“Oh, several. Several.”
“I take it, then, you’ll join?” Even Sarah’s voice showed a sort of incredulity over the apparently absolute collapse of her brother’s morale. “Mother will be so happy! I’ll be so—amused. I did look forward to your return, Jimmie—with a terrible longing. A pretty nearly crazy expectancy. When it turned out that you were just a—a snot, I couldn’t bear it. That’s what makes revenge so sweet.”
Jimmie had stood more than enough.
He had led his sister on by a quietness that had suggested subjugation. He had wanted to see how far and how deep her malice would go. Now that he knew, his rage was explicit. He had to stop Sarah, at any cost. Any. That was the one fact upon which he must act.
Audrey had put her whole life in his hands—against his will and without his knowledge—but he had accepted the trust by the mere retention of the diaries. He could have sent them back. He had not sent them back.
Sarah had read them—or some of them. Black-haired, blue, blistering-eyed Sarah.
And Sarah was going to use her stolen information as a bludgeon, a dagger, an eternal wellspring of power and black laughter. That was her scheme. To be so willing, so eager to torture, she must have been tortured herself, first. Jimmie did not know by whom or by what—and there was no time to find out. Sarah was dangerous as she sat there—crouched, almost—in front of him. The danger had to be met.
“I couldn’t persuade you,” Jimmie said, after a moment, and not looking at his sister, “that what you intend to do is pretty scurvy? It’s blackmail, you know. Besides, how can I tell that you won’t do what other blackmailers have done? How can I tell that you won’t, someday, just hint to Audrey, say—or Audrey’s mother—that you know all about these diaries? How can I be sure that you won’t go on clubbing people to gain small advantages for yourself?”