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Page 42
The woman opened a purse and dashed a handful of silver to the floor.
"That is my all!" she cried, hoarsely.
"Then you must find a way out of your difficulties. I am going to have
a serious talk with you."
Nevill drew a chair up to the couch, and his first words roused the
woman's interest. He spoke for ten minutes or more, now in whispers, now
with a rising inflection; now persuasively, now with well-feigned
indignation and scorn. The effect which his argument had on his
companion was shown by the swift changes that passed over her face; she
interrupted him frequently, asking questions and making comments. At the
end the woman rustled her silken skirts disdainfully, and rose to her
feet.
"Why do you suggest this, Victor?" she demanded. "Where do _you_ come
in?"
Nevill seemed slightly disconcerted.
"I am foolish enough to feel an interest in a person I once cared for,"
he replied. "I want to save you from ruin that is inevitable if you
continue in your present course."
"It is kind of you, Victor Nevill," the woman answered sneeringly. "He
has a personal motive," she thought. "What can it be?"
"The thing is so simple, so natural," said Nevill, "that I wonder you
hesitate. Of course you will fall in with it."
"Suppose I refuse?"
"I can't credit you with such madness."
"But what if--" She leaned toward him and whispered a short sentence in
his ear. His face turned the color of ashes, and he clutched her wrist
so tightly that she winced with pain.
"It is a lie!" he cried, brutally. "By heavens, if I believed--"
The woman laughed--a laugh that was not pleasant to hear.
"Fool! do you think I would tell you if it was true?" she said. "I was
only jesting."
"It is not a subject to jest about," Nevill answered stiffly. "I came
here to do you a good turn, and--"
"You had better have kept away. You are a fiend--you are a Satan
himself! Why do you tempt me? Do you think that I have no conscience,
no shame left? I am bad enough, Victor Nevill, but by the memory of the
past--of what I threw away--I can't stoop so low as to--"
"Your heroics are out of place," he interrupted. "Go to the devil your
own way, if you like."
"You shall have an answer to-morrow--to-morrow! Give me time to think
about it."
The woman sank down on the couch again; her over-wrought nerves gave
way, and burying her face in the cushions she sobbed hysterically.
Nevill looked at her for a moment. Then he put a couple of sovereigns on
the table and quietly left the room.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE DINNER AT RICHMOND.
Three days later, at the unusually early hour of nine in the morning,
Victor Nevill was enjoying his sponge bath. There appeared to be
something of a pleasing nature on his mind, for as he dressed he smiled
complacently at his own reflection in the glass. Having finished his
toilet, he did not ring immediately for his breakfast. He sat down to
his desk, and drew pen, ink and paper before him.
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