Harry was conscious that the two men beside him exchanged glances--they were going to make a dash for it. His every nerve tightened. But at that instant the door opened upon the obsequious servant. "Did you ring, Madame?" he asked.
"I rang the telephone," she replied dully. "I called up Mr. Craig. He is coming."
"Very good, madame." This time he did not leave, but moved about the room, setting straight a book upon the table, adjusting a vase, glancing furtively at her the while. The moment for flight had passed.
Endless minutes ensued. Then in the strained silence there fell a sharp step outside, and the servant went quickly from the room. Harry felt a little tremor run over him. There was the sound of a key grating in a lock. The outer door opened and clanged shut.
Behind the portière Harry sat motionless, the muzzle of the weapon at his temple, his hair stirring to the suppressed breathing above his head, and the man in the mask shifted his felt-shod feet, restlessly but without sound.
"I could not believe your voice." The heavy tones jarred across the quiet. "I could not believe that it was actually true!"
"Do you accept my offer?" Echo's voice was without a tremor; it held the same hard quality that controlled her features.
"Accept!" He came toward her--would have taken her hands, but that she drew back. "Do you remember what I told you that day in your garden, a year ago--that nothing counted, nothing but you? For you I would barter every ambition I have ever known. I would sell the world, if I had it!"
"When you told me that," she said steadily, "I answered that I did not love you. I have not changed in that regard, nor shall I ever change. I can bring you no love, but I can--can marry you."
He laughed harshly. "Very well; I would not have it different, after all. I am not made on the pattern of other men: I would rather take you against your will--you will be all the more mine! I love even that fine disdain of yours! For it shall not last--I swear that! You shall love me in the end, as I have loved you!"
"Loved!" she repeated, with an accent of chill and wondering scorn.
"Yes, loved!" The words were almost a cry: they held fierce protest, even anger, yet there was in them a kind of appeal that lent them a sombre and tragic dignity. "But you despised me! You had stood first of all things. But if you could be nothing to me, then the game I played stood second. I played, as always, to win. The cards fell oddly--your father's letters, no matter how, came into my hands. They were to my purpose, and I would have used them. Why should I hold back? Out of regard for him? I regard no man!"