"What does he means--'all the rest?'" she questioned.

The American scarcely paused in his stride. "Think it over," he said, and closed the door behind him.

With a heart that thumped hammer blows against her side, Auriole turned toward Richard's bedroom and paused with her hand on the latch. She felt as a traitor might feel who was seeking audience of his sovereign.

For a traitor she was. False to her original employers, to her ideals and to a man who, even though he might have stirred in her the hope of a wedding had never willingly wrought her a single wrong. A dozen times in the last three days her hand had gone out to the telephone and the will had been there to confess to Cranbourne that her allegiance to his side existed no longer, but even in this her honesty had broken down. She saw herself, as she hesitated on the threshold, a wretched mercenary creature--the sport of greed and jealousy--self-centred and governed by thought of gain. It was not a pleasant reflection. For the doubtful blessing of being wife to an unscrupulous millionaire she had deafened her ears to the call of every decent instinct.

And now the Fates had so contrived that it rested with her to make the supreme final appeal and on her success or failure depended the safety and future of the man within. A horrible conviction came over her that these men who held Barraclough captive would indeed stop at nothing to gain their ends and that the innuendoes they had uttered were terribly in earnest. Unless he were persuaded to speak his very life would be forfeit, and it was this consideration that fortified her to make the effort.

Richard was sprawling on the wire mattress when she threw open the door. He raised a pair of hollow eyes that looked at her without recognition. Instinctively she shrunk away from him appalled at the changes in his face and bearing.

"What have they been doing to you?" was startled from her.

Richard hitched himself into a sitting posture and coughed.

"Who are you?" he said.

"Don't you even know me?"

He thought before replying.

"Yes, I know you. You're the woman who was jealous of someone."

"Someone! Is that how you speak of your sweetheart!"

"Wait a bit. It's coming back. Isabel, wasn't it? Isabel Irish.

Well, what do you want?"

She came a little nearer.

"To be with you. I haven't seen you for a long time, now."

"You deserted me, didn't you? I m-missed you at first. Th' one bright spot your coming."

"Was it?" she whispered.

He staggered to his feet and walked rockily into the inner room.

"No! What'm I saying. Man with a sweetheart doesn't want you."

"Tony!"

"No, no. 'Cos you're the worst devil of the lot. Decoyed me to this d.a.m.n place."

"Tony, I'm so sorry," her hand fell on his sleeve, but he drew away.

"Don't come near me. Don't touch me. I mustn't be touched."

"Then I'll sit over here," said she.

"Yes, there. No, get out. Leave me alone, d'y' hear?" His voice pitched up high and imperative, but as suddenly dropped again. "I beg your pardon. I'm not much of a man to talk to a woman jus' now."

"I think you're a very fine man, Tony."

"Ha! Yes. A devil of a fellow!"

"But so stubborn," she whispered.

"There you go," he cried. "I knew it. I knew you came here for that."

"Tony! Tony!" she implored. "This has gone too far. You've been splendid, but what's the use. Just think, my dear, how rich you'd be."

"I don't want to be rich. Rich men torture each other," he cried, steadying himself against the back of a chair.

"You've only to say one word and you can walk out of here without a care in the world."

The sound of violins was in her voice. The promise of life care-free and full of sunshine was in her eyes and the curve of her smile.

He tried to look away, but the appeal was too strong.

"I can walk out of here," he repeated. "Out of here!"

"Such a lovely world, too."

The touch of her breath on his cheek was like a breeze and the smell of her hair like violets.

"Yes, yes."

"A great big garden of a world," he crooned, and no song ever sounded sweeter.

He felt his power to resist was ebbing away--falling from him like a cloak. With a mighty effort, he replied:

"A garden full of Eves."

And he sat humped up upon the camp bed. Auriole glided toward him and slipped her arms round his neck. He made no effort to escape.

"Eves are rather nice," she whispered.

His head tilted back against her.

"Rather nice," he echoed. "Rather nice. Soft shoulders where a man can rest his head." A glorious drowsiness was stealing over his limbs, a blessed sense of drifting into unknown contentment. She drew up her knees and they sat huddled together on the narrow canvas bed like babes in a wood. He was barely conscious of her voice. It came to his ears as gently as the sound of waves running over sand.

"--all the wonderful things we could do, Tony. The plans we could make come true. We could go out to a fairy-like dinner together--in one of your wonderful cars you could fetch me--and the streets would be twinkling with lights like jewels in Aladdin's cave."

Then he found he was talking too.

"A farm in New Zealand," he said. "Great flocks of sheep and herds of cattle. I know the place. There are mountains with snow caps, green gra.s.s plains, black firs and running water. I could have all that--if only--But no."

"Nothing is out of reach, Tony. Everything can be yours at the price of a little sentence--just a little sentence."