“And which are you going to do?” she asked, in a low voice, her eyes veiled, her lips drawn straight.

Falconer laughed grimly.  “I don’t know.  It all depends.  Which would you do?” he asked, half sarcastically.

She was silent for a moment, then she said:  “You knew Sir Stephen some time ago—­years ago, father?”

Falconer nodded.  “I did,” he said, shortly.

“And you were friends, and you quarrelled?”

He looked at her with an air of surprise.

“I saw you both when you stood opposite each other after the carriage accident,” she said, coolly.  “I am not blind, and I am not particularly stupid.  It didn’t strike me at the time that there had been anything wrong between you, but I have since seen you look at Sir Stephen, and—­you have an expressive face sometimes, oh, my father!”

He grinned grimly.

“You appear to keep your eyes open, Maude.  Yes; there was a row between us, and there was a grudge—­”

—­“Which you mean to pay off?” she said, as impassively as if they were speaking of the merest trivialities.

“Which I could pay off—­gratify, if I liked,” he admitted.

“How?” she asked.

He did not reply, but glanced at her sideways and bit at the cigar which he had stopped to light.

“Shall I tell you, if I were a man and I wanted revenge upon such a man as Sir Stephen Orme, what I should do, father?” she asked, in a low voice, and looking straight before her as if she were meditating.

“You can if you like.  What would you do?” he replied, with a touch of sarcastic amusement.

She looked round her and over her shoulder.  The windows near them were closed, Stafford with his cigarette was too far off to overhear them.

“If I were a man, rich and powerful as you are, and I owed another a grudge, I would not rest night or day until I had got him into my power.  Whether I meant to exact my revenge or not, I would wait and work, and scheme and plot until I had him at my mercy so that I could say, ’See now you got the better of me once, you played me false once, but it is my turn now.’  He should sue for mercy, and I would grant it—­or refuse it—­as it pleased me; but he should feel that he was in my power; that my hand was finer than his, my strength greater!” He shot a glance at her, and his great rugged face grew lined and stern.

“Where did you get those ideas?  Why do you talk to me like this?” he muttered, with surprise and some suspicion.

“I am not a child,” she said, languidly.  “And I have been living with you for some time now.  Sir Stephen Orme is a great man, is surrounded by great and famous people, while you, with all your money, are”—­she shrugged her shoulders—­“well, just nobody.”

His face grew dark.  She was playing on him as a musician plays on an instrument with which he is completely familiar.

“What the devil do you mean?” he muttered.