She regarded him serenely. His expression was ugly. There was that in
the look of him that might have daunted any woman, but Phyllis
Astley-Rolfe had lived chiefly by her wits for a sufficient time to be
quite impervious where another would have been silenced. She was as
completely without fear as she was without scruple. Her objects were
objects to be gained, by the most convenient and speedy means, and
quite irrespective of considerations which might have withheld another
from attempting to fulfill them. In furtherance of her present object,
she gave Copplestone look for look.

"I return good for evil," she said. "It is not a habit of mine. It is
really quite contrary to my usual practice. I told a lie to save you
from further suspicion. Considering the circumstances, you must admit
that it was exceedingly generous of me. And I expect you to be
grateful."

Anything but an expression of gratitude confronted her. He remained
silent, making a strong effort to mask his agitation. But his fingers
twitched spasmodically, and there was unmistakable fear in his eyes. She
watched him intently, losing no point of the effect she had created.

"Well...?" she said steadily.

There was no answer. She bent towards him.

"I said you were with me. You were not with me. Where were you?"

The man breathed heavily, his baleful gaze fixed on her. She met it
with unassailable composure.

"Listen," she said slowly--"there are strange things in this house. I
know it. I've known it for some time. Things that the light of day never
shines on. What are they?"

He sprang up, and stood over her with clenched hands, his face torn with
fury.

"Damn you!" he cried hoarsely. "What is my house, or what happens in it,
to you?"

"Sit down," she said firmly. "You are not frightening me. To threaten a
woman is merely to increase her tenacity, and mine requires no
fortification. Please move away from me."

He obeyed, muttering. Her calmness disarmed him.

"I am not sure," she continued, "that I wanted you to answer my
question--anyway at present. Perhaps your secrets might be too much,
even for my conscience--and that is saying a great deal."

He had resumed his chair. There was a moment's pause.

"You were foolish to mock me," she went on.

"Mockery is the one thing a woman cannot accept, or forgive. She can
stand any amount of ill-treatment and cruelty, in a sufficient cause.
But she cannot be mocked in any cause whatever. You made me