. But when once it is known that you had the necklace all that
time in your own desk, any magistrate, I imagine, could stop you.
You'd better have some lawyer you can trust;--not that blackguard
Mopus."

Lord George had certainly brought her no comfort. When he told her
that she might go at once if she chose, she remembered, with a pang
of agony, that she had already overdrawn her account at the bankers.
She was the actual possessor of an income of four thousand pounds a
year, and now, in her terrible strait, she could not stir because she
had no money with which to travel. Had all things been well with her,
she could, no doubt, have gone to her bankers and have arranged this
little difficulty. But as it was, she could not move, because her
purse was empty.

Lord George sat looking at her, and thinking whether he would make
the plunge and ask her to be his wife,--with all her impediments and
drawbacks about her. He had been careful to reduce her to such a
condition of despair, that she would undoubtedly have accepted him,
so that she might have some one to lean upon in her trouble;--but,
as he looked at her, he doubted. She was such a mass of deceit, that
he was afraid of her. She might say that she would marry him, and
then, when the storm was over, refuse to keep her word. She might
be in debt,--almost to any amount. She might be already married,
for anything that he knew. He did know that she was subject to all
manner of penalties for what she had done. He looked at her, and told
himself that she was very pretty. But in spite of her beauty, his
judgment went against her. He did not dare to share even his boat
with so dangerous a fellow-passenger. "That's my advice," he said,
getting up from his chair.

"Are you going?"

"Well;--yes; I don't know what else I can do for you."

"You are so unkind!" He shrugged his shoulders, just touched her
hand, and left the room without saying another word to her.

CHAPTER LXIV

Lizzie's Last Scheme

Lizzie, when she was left alone, was very angry with the Corsair,--in
truth, more sincerely angry than she had ever been with any of her
lovers, or, perhaps, with any human being. Sincere, true, burning
wrath was not the fault to which she was most exposed. She could snap
and snarl, and hate, and say severe things; she could quarrel, and
fight, and be malicious;--but to be full of real wrath was uncommon
with her. Now she was angry. She had been civil, more than civil,