"Yes, I'm back," he said. "I hurried back because Sir Stephen is going
to sign the articles to-night, going to bring the thing to a
conclusion."
She nodded, her eyes fixed on his hawk-like ones with a calm but keen
watchfulness.
"And you? Have you--"
He leant forward, and held out one claw-like hand, open.
"Yes, I've got him fast and tight." His hand closed, and his eyes shot
a swift, lurid gleam from under their half-lowered lids. "I've got him
as in a vice; I've only to turn the screw and--I squeeze him as flat
and dry as a lemon." She drew a long breath of satisfaction, of relief.
"You are clever!" she said. "And in one fortnight."
He smiled grimly.
"Yes; it is sharp work; and it has taken some doing--and some money.
But I've worked it. Black Steve--I mean Sir Stephen Orme, the great Sir
Stephen--is under my thumb. To-night, the night of his triumph, I am
going to crack him like an egg."
"You will ruin him?" she said.
"That is it," he said, with a nod. "I shall ruin him!"
"Is there no escape?" she asked in a low voice.
"None," he replied, grimly. "I tell you that nothing can save him."
"Excepting one thing," she said in so low a voice that it sounded as if
she were speaking to herself.
"Eh?" he said, as if he had not caught the words. "What is it you mean:
what can save him, what is this one thing?"
His heavy brows came done, and he frowned at her.
She raised her eyes, cold and glittering like steel, and met his frown
unflinchingly.
"The marriage of his son Stafford with your daughter," she said,
slowly, calmly.