Sir Stephen’s face grew strained, and a curious expression crept into it.

“If you ask me why you should not, I can give you no reason,” he said.  “If you were poor I should offer you money—­more, a great deal more than I received for the old claim; but I can see that that would not tempt you to forego your revenge.  Falconer, you are not poor; your daughter wears diamonds—­”

Falconer shrugged his shoulders.

“No, I’m not in want of money.  You’re not the only man who has had a change of luck.  No, you can’t bribe me; even if I were hard up instead of rather flush, as I am, I wouldn’t take a hundred thousand pounds for my revenge.”

Sir Stephen rose.  There was an ominous change in his manner.  His nervousness and apprehension seemed to have suddenly left him, and in its place was a terrible, stony calmness, an air of inflexible determination.

“Good!” he said; and his voice had changed also, changed from its faltering tone of appeal to one of steadfast resolution, the steadiness of desperation.  “I have made my appeal to you, Falconer, and I gather that I have failed to move you; that you intend to exact your revenge by—­denouncing me!”

Falconer nodded coolly.

“And you think that I could endure to live under such a threat, to walk about with the sword of Damocles over my head?  You ought to know me better, Falconer.  I will not live to endure the shame you can inflict on me, I will not live to tempt you by the sight of me to take your revenge.  I shall die to-night.”

Falconer eyed him intently, and carefully selected a fresh cigar.  When he had as carefully lit it, he said callously: 

“That’s your business, of course.  I shouldn’t venture to interfere with any plan of that kind.  So you’d sneak out of it, eh, Orme?  Sneak out of it, and leave that young fellow to bear the brunt?  Well, I’m sorry for him!  He seems the right sort—­deuced good-looking and high-class—­yes, I’m d——­d sorry for him!”

Once again Sir Stephen’s lips twitched and the big drops of sweat stood on his brow.  He stood for a minute looking from right to left like a hunted animal at bay—­then with something between a groan and a cry of savagery, he spring towards Falconer with his hands outstretched and making for his tormentor’s throat.

Before he could sweep the table aside and get at him, Falconer whipped a revolver from his pocket and aimed it at Sir Stephen.

“You fool!” he said in his harsh, grating voice, “did you think I was such an idiot as to trust myself alone with you unarmed?  Did you think I’d forgotten what sort of man you were, or imagined that you’d so changed that I could trust you?  Bah!  Sit down!  Stand back, or, by Heaven, I’ll shoot you as I would a dog!”

Sir Stephen shrank back, his hand to his heart, his eyes distended, his face livid as if he were choking and sank into a chair.  Falconer returned the revolver into his pocket, and with his foot pushed the inlaid Oriental table towards his host and victim.