“You care—­as much as that?” she murmured.

“Ask me no questions, answer mine!” he cried fiercely.  “You shall stay with me here—­or in five minutes I leave on my campaign.”

She laughed musically.

“This is positively delicious,” she exclaimed.  “I am being made love to in medieval fashion.  Other times other manners, sir!  Will you listen to reason?”

“I will listen to nothing—­save your answer, yes or no,” he declared, drawing on his overcoat.

She laid her hand upon his shoulder.

“Reginald,” she said, “you are like the whirlwind—­and how can I answer you in five minutes!”

“You can answer me in one,” he declared fiercely.  “Will you pay my price if I do your bidding?  Yes or no!  The price is yourself.  Now!  Yes or no?”

She drew on her own cloak and fastened the clasp with shaking fingers.  Then she turned towards the door.

“I wish you good-bye and good fortune, Reginald,” she said.  “I daresay we may not meet again.  It will be better that we do not.”

“This then is your answer?” he cried.

She looked around at him.  Was it his fancy, or were those tears in her eyes?  Or was she really so wonderful an actress?

“Do you think,” she said, “that if I had not cared I should have come here?”

“Tell me that in plain words,” he cried.  “It is all I ask.”

The door was suddenly opened.  Grahame stood upon the threshold.  He looked beyond Lucille to Brott.

“You must really forgive me,” he said, “but there is barely time to catch the train, Brott.  I have a hansom waiting, and your luggage is on.”

Brott answered nothing.  Lucille held out her hands to him.

“Yes or no?” he asked her in a low hoarse tone.

“You must—­give me time!  I don’t want to lose you.  I—­”

He caught up his coat.

“Coming, Grahame,” he said firmly.  “Countess, I must beg your pardon ten thousand times for this abrupt departure.  My servants will call your carriage.”

She leaned towards him, beautiful, anxious, alluring.

“Reginald!”

“Yes or no,” he whispered in her ear.

“Give me until to-morrow,” she faltered.

“Not one moment,” he answered.  “Yes—­now, this instant—­or I go!”

“Brott!  My dear man, we have not a second to lose.”

“You hear!” he muttered.  “Yes or no?”

She trembled.

“Give me until to-morrow,” she begged.  “It is for your own sake.  For your own safety.”

He turned on his heel!  His muttered speech was profane, but inarticulate.  He sprang into the hansom by Grahame’s side.

“Euston!” the latter cried through the trap-door.  “Double fare, cabby.  We must catch the Scotchman.”

Lucille came out a few moments later, and looked up and down the street as her brougham drove smartly up.  The hansom was fast disappearing in the distance.  She looked after it and sighed.