ol:
that, in short, he was up to the neck in difficulties as it was, and
really had nothing like that sum in his possession.

'Very well, then,' she replied at last, 'you must marry me instead. Either
the money or the marriage. Personally, I prefer the money'--Rondel's
egoism twinged like a hollow tooth--'and if you think you can escape me
and do neither, look at this!' and she drew a revolver from her pocket.

'They are all loaded,' she added. 'Now, which is it to be?'

Rondel made a movement as if to snatch the weapon from her, but she
sprang back and pointed it at his head.

'If you move, I fire.'

Now one would not need to be a minor poet to be a coward under such
circumstances. Rondel could see that Annette meant what she said. She was
clearly a desperate woman, with no great passion for life. To shoot him
and then herself would be a little thing in the present state of her
feelings. Like most poets, he was a prudent man--he hesitated, leaning
with closed fist upon the table. She stood firm.

'Come,' she said at length, 'which is it to be--the revolver, marriage, or
the money?' She ominously clicked the trigger, 'I give you five minutes.'

It was five minutes to eleven. The clock ticked on while the two still
stood in their absurdly tragic attitudes--he still hesitating, she with
her pistol in line with the brain that laid the golden verse. The clock
whirred before striking the hour. Annette made a determined movement.
Hyacinth looked up; he saw she meant it, all the more for the mocking
indifference of her expression.

'Once more--death, marriage, or the money?'

The clock struck.

'The money,' gasped the poet.

* * * * *

But Annette still kept her weapon in line.

'Your cheque-book!' she said. Rondel obeyed.

'Pay Miss Annette Jones, or order, the sum of two hundred and thirty
pounds. No, don't cross it!'

Rondel obeyed.

'Now, toss it over to me. You observe I still hold the pistol.'

Rondel once more obeyed. Then, still keeping him under cover of the
ugly-looking tube, she backed towards the door.

'Good-bye,' she said. 'Be sure I shall look out for your next volume.'

Rondel, bewildered as one who had lived through a fairy-tale, sank into
his chair. Did such ridiculous things happen? He turned to his
cheque-book. Yes, there was the counterfoil, fresh as a new wound, from
which indeed his bank account was profusely bleeding.

Then he turned to his laurels