He began to laugh again—­that soft, silky laugh.  “You’re such a silly child,” he said; “you always expect the worst.  It’s not wise of you.  Aren’t you old enough to know that yet?”

She found her voice at last, and with it came the consciousness of the slow, slow beating of her heart.  “Let me go!” she said, in a breathless whisper.

“Presently; on one condition,” he said.

“No, now!” The beating had begun to quicken a little, to harden into a distinct throbbing.  But she felt deadly cold.  Her hands, powerless in that unrelenting grasp, were as ice.

“Now don’t be foolish!” said Hunt-Goring.  “You’re absolutely at my mercy, and it’s very poor policy on your part not to recognize that fact.  Just listen!  You want me to let you go, you say.  Well, I will let you go—­for one small consideration on your part.  You’ve never paid that debt of yours.  You will pay it now—­in full, freely, both arms round my neck.  Come, I’ve a right to ask that much.  It’s just a whim that you can’t refuse to gratify.”

“I can refuse!” The words leaped from Olga.  Her strength was returning, her heart quickening with every instant.  “At least you can’t make me do that!” she said.

“You would rather do it than marry me, I presume?” he said.

“I will never do either!” She stirred at last in his hold.  She did not shrink from his eyes any longer; rather she challenged them as she stiffened herself to rise.

Hunt-Goring laughed in her face.  “Oh, won’t you?” he said.  “I fancy you said that once before—­and lived to regret it.  It really is not wise of you to defy me.  I warn you!  I warn you!” His hold tightened upon her with sudden brutality, quelling her effort at freedom.  “There are worse things than marriage,” he said.  “Are you utterly ignorant, I wonder, or deliberately foolhardy?  Why do you always force upon me the role of villain?  I tell you again, you are not wise!”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Olga said.  She sat quite still in his hold now, for she knew that resistance was useless.  Like Noel, she suddenly wondered if he were indeed sane.  His eyes were unlike any she had ever seen in a human being.  They glared upon her so devilishly, so murderously.  She faced them with all her courage.  “I don’t know what you mean,” she repeated.  “I think you must be mad to persecute me in this way.  I have always said that I would never marry you.”

“But you will change your mind,” he said.

She kept her eyes on his.  “I shall never change my mind,” she said very distinctly.

He laughed again, his lower lip between his teeth.  “Even if I were mad,” he said, “wouldn’t you be wiser to humour me?  Have you forgotten what happened when you flouted me before?”

“No, I have not forgotten.”  A quiver of anger went through Olga, and she suffered it, for it helped her courage.  “I shall never forgive you for that,” she said—­“never, as long as I live!”