“Then you won’t tell Bronson?” Ethel asked.
“No,” he said, “I won’t tell Bronson.”
Ethel sighed, and felt almost that she would faint.
“Now I’m sorry for you two,” Taylor said more genially, “and as long as you do what I tell you to, we’ll leave the little matter of the jewels as between your sister and her conscience. I’ll let you know when I need you. It may be to-night, it may be not for a month or a year, but when I do want you—”
“I shall be ready,” the girl declared.
“Say, Chief,” Duncan said looking in at the door,—
“Get out, I’m busy,” Taylor shouted.
“I thought you’d like to know the Mauretania was coming up the bay,” his satellite returned, slightly aggrieved at this reception.
“She is?” said the other. “Wait a minute then. Now, Miss Cartwright, good afternoon. Remember what is at stake, your future, and your sister’s happiness. And don’t forget that my silence depends on your not failing me.”
Only a man of Taylor’s coarse and cruel mould could have looked at her without remorse or compunction. He did not see a beautiful refined woman cheerfully bearing another’s cross. He saw only a society girl, who had matched her immature wits against his and lost, was beaten and in the dust. There was a pathetic break in her voice as she answered him.