Mario Escobar was a creature of unhealthy refinements.  He wanted to know, first, who was the man who had touched this indifferent maiden into warm life.  The knowledge would be an extra spice to his pleasure.

“Who are staying in the house?” he asked.  It would be amusing to make his selection, and discover if he were right.

“Dennis Brown, Harold Jupp”—­Joan began, puzzled by his question, yet welcoming it as so much delay.

“I don’t want to hear about them,” Mario Escobar replied.  “Tell me of the new-comers!”

“Martin Hillyard——­” Joan began again, and was aware that Mario Escobar made a quick startled movement and gasped.  Martin Hillyard’s name was a pail of cold water for Escobar.

“Does Hillyard know that I am at Midhurst?” he asked sharply.

“No,” Joan answered.

There was something which Hillyard had told her about Mario Escobar, something which she had rejected and dismissed altogether from her thoughts.  Then she remembered.  Escobar was an enemy working in England against England.  She had given the statement no weight whatever.  It was the sort of thing people said of unconventional people they disliked in order to send them to Coventry.  But Escobar’s start and Escobar’s question put a different value upon it.  Joan caught at it.  Of what use could it be to her?  Of some use, surely, if only she had the wit to divine it.  But she was in such a disorder of fear and doubt that every idea went whirling about and about in her mind.  She raised her hand to her forehead, keeping her eyes upon Escobar.  She felt as helpless as a child.  Almost she regretted the love which had so violently mastered her.  It had made clear to her her ignorance and so stripped her of all assurance and left her defenceless.

But even in the tumult of her thoughts, she began to recognise a change.  The air was less charged with terror.  There was less of passion and anger in Mario Escobar, and more of speculation.  He watched her in a gloomy silence, and each moment she took fresh heart.  With a swift movement he seated himself on the couch beside her.

Joan sprang up with a little cry, and her heart thumping in her breast.

“Hush!” said Escobar.  Yes, it was now he who pleaded for secrecy and a quiet voice.

There was a stronger passion in Mario than the love of women, and that was the love of money.  Women were to him mainly the means to money.  They were easier to get, too, if you were not over particular.  Money was a rare, shy thing, except to an amazing few who accumulated it by some obscure, magnetic attraction; and opportunities of acquisition were not to be missed.

“Hush!” he said.  “You treated me badly, Joan.  It was right that I should teach you a lesson—­frighten you a little, eh?”

He smiled at her with eyes half closed and eyelids cunningly blinking.  Now that her fears were weakening Joan found his impertinence almost insufferable.  But she held her tongue and waited.