His eyes were fixed steadily upon the dusky face with its prominent cheek-bones and mocking mouth.  Perhaps he knew, what Anne had discovered long before, that those sensitive lips might easily reveal what the fierce eyes hid.

“A matter of opinion,” threw back Nap.  “If I am, Anne Carfax has made me so.”

“Anne Carfax,” said Lucas very deliberately, “has done her best to make a man of you.  It is not her fault if she has failed.  It is not her fault that you have chosen to drag her friendship through the mire.”

“Friendship!” broke in Nap.  “She gave me more than that.”

Lucas’s brows contracted as if at a sudden dart of pain, but his voice was perfectly level as he made reply:  “Whatever she gave you was the gift of a good woman of which you have proved yourself utterly unworthy.”

Nap sprang to his feet.  “Be it so!” he exclaimed harshly.  “I am unworthy.  What of it?  She always knew I was.”

“Yet she trusted you.”

“She trusted me, yes.  Having cast out the devil she found in possession, she thought there was nothing more to me.  She thought that I should be content to wander empty all my days through dry places, seeking rest.  She forgot the sequel, forgot what was bound to happen when I found none.  You seem to have forgotten that too.  Or do you think that I am indeed that interesting vacuum that you are pleased to call a gentleman?” He flung his arms wide with a sudden, passionate laugh.  “Why, my good fellow, I’d sooner rank myself with the beasts that perish.  And I’d sooner perish too; yes, die with a rope round my throat in the good old English fashion.  There’s nothing in that.  I’d as soon die that way as any other.  It may not be so artistic as our method, but it’s quite a clean process, and the ultimate result is the same.”

“Do you mind sitting down?” said Lucas.

Nap looked at him sharply.  “In pain again?”

“Sit down,” Lucas reiterated.  “You can’t do anything more than that.  Now will you take the trouble to make me understand what exactly are your present intentions, and why?”

“Doesn’t that letter tell you?” said Nap.

“This letter,” Lucas answered, “is the desperate appeal of a very unhappy woman who is in mortal dread of your murdering her husband.”

“That all?” said Nap.  The red glare of savagery flickered for an instant in his eyes.  “She has no fears on her own account then?”

“Will you explain?”

“Oh, certainly, if you need explanation.  I mean that the death of Sir Giles Carfax is no more than a stepping-stone, a means to an end.  So long as he lives, he will stand in my way.  Therefore Sir Giles will go.  And mark me, any other man who attempts to come between us I will kill also.  Heaven knows what there is in her that attracts me, but there is something—­something I have never seen in any other woman—­something that goes to my head.  Oh, I’m not in love with her.  I’m long past that stage.  One can’t be in love for ever, and she is as cold as the North Star anyway.  But she has driven me mad, and I warn you—­I warn you—­you had better not interfere with me!”