“What did he come for?” Jacky persisted.

The girl could be relentless even with her uncle.

“Lablache—­oh—­er—­talk bus—­bus’ness, child—­bus’ness,” and he attempted to get up from his chair again.

But Jacky would not let him go.

“Wait a moment, uncle dear, I want to talk to you.  I sha’n’t keep you long.”  The old man looked anywhere but at his companion.  A cold sweat was on his forehead, and his cheek twitched painfully under the steady gaze of the girl’s somber eyes.  “I don’t often get a chance of talking to you now,” she went on, with a slight touch of bitterness.  “I just want to talk about that skunk, Lablache.  I guess he didn’t pass the evening talking of Retief—­and what he intends to do towards his capture?  Say, uncle, what was it about?”

The old man grasped at the suggestion.

“Yes—­yes, child.  It was Retief.”

He kept his eyes averted.  The girl was not deceived.

“All the time?”

“Poker” John remained silent.  He would have lied but could not.

“Uncle!”

Her tone was a moral pressure.  The old man turned for relief to his avuncular authority.

“I must go.  You’ve no right—­question me,” he stuttered.  “I refu—­”

“No, uncle, you won’t refuse me.”  The girl had risen and had moved round to where the old man sat.  She fondled him lovingly and his attempt at angry protest died within him.  “Come, dear, tell me all about it.  You are worried and I can help you.  What did he threaten you with?  I suppose he wants money,” contemptuously.  “How much?”

The old drunkard was powerless to resist her loving appeal.

He was cornered.  Another might have lied and so escaped, but John Allandale’s weakness was such that he had not the courage to resort to subterfuge.  Moreover, there was a faint spark of honor nickering deep down in his kindly heart.  The girl’s affectionate display was surely fanning that spark into a flame.  Would the flame grow or would it sparkle up for one brief moment and then go out from pure lack of fuel?  Suddenly something of the truth of the cause of her uncle’s distress flashed across Jacky’s mind.  She knew Lablache’s wishes in regard to herself.  Perhaps she was the subject of that interview.

“Uncle, it is I who am causing you this trouble.  What is it that Lablache wants of me?” She asked the question with her cheek pressed to the old man’s face.  His whisky-laden breath reeked in her nostrils.

Her question took him unawares, and he started up pushing her from him.

“Who—­who told you, girl?” His bleared eyes were now turned upon her, and they gazed fearfully into hers.

“I thought so,” she exclaimed, smiling back into the troubled face.  “No one told me, uncle, I guess that beast wants to marry me.  Say, uncle, you can tell me everything right here.  I’ll help you.  He’s smart, but he can’t mate with me.”