“Is that all?”

“No, woman. I have your letters!”

She sprang up with a little scream and stood over him with dilated eyes.  Sir John leaned back in his chair, rubbed his hands, and watched her tortured face with evident satisfaction.

“Yes, you may well scream,” he said, “for I not only possess them, but I have read and re-read them.  I know all your story, the name of the husband you deserted and of the child who died of your neglect.  I have even sent an agent to identify the localities.  Yes, you may well scream, for I have read them all, and really they are most instructive documents, and romantic enough for a novel; such fire, such passionate invective, such wild despair.  But, since I learnt how and why you married me, I will tell you what I have made up my mind to do.  I am going after the inquest to turn you out of this house, and give you a pittance to live on so long as you remain here.  I wish you to become a visible moral, a walking monument of disgrace in the neighbourhood you ruled.  Should you attempt to escape me, the payment will be stopped; should you obtain employment, your character shall be exposed.  At every turn you shall be struck down till you learn to kiss the hand that strikes you and beg for pity on your knees.  My revenge, Anne, shall be to break your spirit.”

“And are you not perhaps afraid that I may turn upon you?  You know me to be a woman of strong will and many resources, some of which you do not even understand.”

“No, I am not afraid, because I still have a reserve force; I still hold the letters that I stole two days ago; and, even should you murder me, I have left directions that will ensure your exposure.”

A pause ensued.

“Have you nothing more to say?” he said, at last.

“Nothing.”

“Supposing, Anne, that I were to tell you that I have been trying to frighten you, and that if you were to go down on your knees before me now, and beg my forgiveness, I would forgive you—­no, not forgive you, but let you off with easier terms—­would you do it?”

“No, John, I would not.  Once I went on my knees to a man, and I have not forgotten the lesson he taught me.  Do your worst.”

“Then you understand my terms, and accept them?”

“Understand them! yes.  I understand that you are a little-minded man, and, like all little-minded men, cruel, and desirous of exacting the uttermost farthing in the way of revenge, forgetting that you owe everything to me.  I do not wish to exculpate myself, mind you.  Looking at the case from your point of view, and in your own petty way, I can almost sympathize with you.  But as for accepting your terms—­do you know me so little as to think that I could do so?  Have you not learnt that I may break, but shall never bend?  And, if I chose now to face the matter out, I should beat you, even now when you hold all the cards in your hand; but I am weary of it all, especially weary of you and your little ways, and I do not choose.  You will injure me enough to make the great success I planned for us both impossible, and I am tired of everything except the success which crowns a struggle.  Well, I have ways of escape you know nothing of.  Do your worst; I am not afraid of you;” and she leaned back easily in her chair, and looked at him with wearied and indifferent eyes.