“But you owe me a return, don’t you?”

Joan did not move.

“A little return—­which will cost you nothing at all.  You know that I represent a line of ships.  You can help me.  We have rivals, with active agents.  You shall find out for me exactly what Martin Hillyard is doing in the Mediterranean, and why he visits in a yacht the ports of Spain.  You will find this out for me, so that I may know whether he is acting for my rivals.  Yes.”

“He is not,” answered Joan.

“You will find this out for me, so that I may know,” Escobar repeated smoothly.  “Exactly what he is doing in the Mediterranean, what special plans, and why he visits in a yacht the ports of Spain.  You promise me that knowledge, and you can go straight back to your dancing.”

“I have no knowledge,” said Joan quietly.

“But you can obtain it,” Escobar insisted.  “He is a friend of yours.  Exactly what he is doing—­is it not so?”

So Martin’s accusation was true.  Joan nodded her head, and Escobar, with a smile of relief, took the gesture as a consent to his proposal.

“Good!” he said, rising from the couch.  “Then all is forgiven!  You will make some notes——­”

“I will do nothing of the kind,” said Joan quietly, but she was white to the edge of her lips, and she trembled from head to foot.  But there was no room any more for fear in her.  She was in a heat of anger which she had never known.  “Oh, that you should dare!” and her words choked her.

Mario Escobar stared at her.

“You refuse?”

“With all my soul.”

Escobar took a step towards her, but she did not move.

“You are alone with me, when you should be dancing at the ball.  You made the appointment, chose the hour, the place ... even if you scream, there will be a scandal, a disgrace.”

“I don’t care.”

“And the man you are in love with, eh?  That makes a difference,” he said, as he saw the girl falter.  “Do we think of him?”

“No,” said Joan.  “We incur the disgrace.”

She saw his eyes open wide with terror.  He drew a step away from her.  “Oh!” he exclaimed, in a long-drawn whisper; and he looked at Joan with incredulity and hatred.  “You——­” he used some Spanish word which Joan did not catch.  It would have told her little if she had caught it.  It was “Cabron,” a harmless, inoffensive word which has become in Spain the ultimate low word of abuse.  “You have laid a trap for me.”

Joan answered him in a bewilderment.  “I have laid no trap for you,” and there was so much scorn and contempt in her voice that Escobar could hardly disbelieve her.

But he was shaken.  He was in a panic.  He was in a haste to go.  Money—­yes.  But you must live in order to enjoy it.

“I will give you a day to think over my proposal,” he said, stammering the words in his haste.  And then, “Don’t write to me!  I will find a means,” and, almost before she was aware of his movements, he had snatched up his cap, and the room was empty.  The curtain was torn aside; the glass door stood open; beyond it the garden lay white in the light of the moon.