In the moment of victory, Tuppence betrayed a somewhat unsportsmanlike triumph.

“Now who’s on top and who’s underneath?” she crowed.

The other’s face was convulsed with rage.  For a minute Tuppence thought she was going to spring upon her, which would have placed the girl in an unpleasant dilemma, since she meant to draw the line at actually letting off the revolver.  However, with an effort Mrs. Vandemeyer controlled herself, and at last a slow evil smile crept over her face.

“Not a fool, then, after all!  You did that well, girl.  But you shall pay for it—­oh, yes, you shall pay for it!  I have a long memory!”

“I’m surprised you should have been gulfed so easily,” said Tuppence scornfully.  “Did you really think I was the kind of girl to roll about on the floor and whine for mercy?”

“You may do—­some day!” said the other significantly.

The cold malignity of her manner sent an unpleasant chill down Tuppence’s spine, but she was not going to give in to it.

“Supposing we sit down,” she said pleasantly.  “Our present attitude is a little melodramatic.  No—­not on the bed.  Draw a chair up to the table, that’s right.  Now I’ll sit opposite you with the revolver in front of me—­just in case of accidents.  Splendid.  Now, let’s talk.”

“What about?” said Mrs. Vandemeyer sullenly.

Tuppence eyed her thoughtfully for a minute.  She was remembering several things.  Boris’s words, “I believe you would sell—­us!” and her answer, “The price would have to be enormous,” given lightly, it was true, yet might not there be a substratum of truth in it?  Long ago, had not Whittington asked:  “Who’s been blabbing?  Rita?” Would Rita Vandemeyer prove to be the weak spot in the armour of Mr. Brown?

Keeping her eyes fixed steadily on the other’s face, Tuppence replied quietly: 

“Money——­”

Mrs. Vandemeyer started.  Clearly, the reply was unexpected.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll tell you.  You said just now that you had a long memory.  A long memory isn’t half as useful as a long purse!  I dare say it relieves your feelings a good deal to plan out all sorts of dreadful things to do to me, but is that practical?  Revenge is very unsatisfactory.  Every one always says so.  But money”—­Tuppence warmed to her pet creed—­“well, there’s nothing unsatisfactory about money, is there?”

“Do you think,” said Mrs. Vandemeyer scornfully, “that I am the kind of woman to sell my friends?”

“Yes,” said Tuppence promptly.  “If the price was big enough.”

“A paltry hundred pounds or so!”

“No,” said Tuppence.  “I should suggest—­a hundred thousand!”

Her economical spirit did not permit her to mention the whole million dollars suggested by Julius.

A flush crept over Mrs. Vandemeyer’s face.

“What did you say?” she asked, her fingers playing nervously with a brooch on her breast.  In that moment Tuppence knew that the fish was hooked, and for the first time she felt a horror of her own money-loving spirit.  It gave her a dreadful sense of kinship to the woman fronting her.