He raised his head a little.  A look came into his eyes which I felt that I ought to understand, yet to the meaning of which I seemed, for the instant, to have mislaid the key.  I shrugged my shoulders.

‘I have come because you wanted me.’

‘Because I wanted you!—­On my word!—­That’s sublime!’

’All night you have wanted me,—­do I not know?  When she talked to you of him, and the blood boiled in your veins; when he spoke, and all the people listened, and you hated him, because he had honour in her eyes.’

I was startled.  Either he meant what it appeared incredible that he could mean, or—­there was confusion somewhere.

’Take my advice, my friend, and don’t try to come the bunco-steerer over me,—­I’m a bit in that line myself, you know.’

This time the score was mine,—­he was puzzled.

‘I know not what you talk of.’

‘In that case, we’re equal,—­I know not what you talk of either.’

His manner, for him, was childlike and bland.

’What is it you do not know?  This morning did I not say,—­if you want me, then I come?’

’I fancy I have some faint recollection of your being so good as to say something of the kind, but—­where’s the application?’

‘Do you not feel for him the same as I?’

‘Who’s the him?’

‘Paul Lessingham.’

It was spoken quietly, but with a degree of—­to put it gently—­ spitefulness which showed that at least the will to do the Apostle harm would not be lacking.

‘And, pray, what is the common feeling which we have for him?’

‘Hate.’

Plainly, with this gentleman, hate meant hate,—­in the solid oriental sense.  I should hardly have been surprised if the mere utterance of the words had seared his lips.

’I am by no means prepared to admit that I have this feeling which you attribute to me, but, even granting that I have, what then?’

‘Those who hate are kin.’

’That, also, I should be slow to admit; but—­to go a step farther —­what has all this to do with your presence on my premises at this hour of the night?’

‘You love her.’  This time I did not ask him to supply the name,—­ being unwilling that it should be soiled by the traffic of his lips.  ’She loves him,—­that is not well.  If you choose, she shall love you,—­that will be well.’

’Indeed.—­And pray how is this consummation which is so devoutly to be desired to be brought about?’

‘Put your hand into mine.  Say that you wish it.  It shall be done.’

Moving a step forward, he stretched out his hand towards me.  I hesitated.  There was that in the fellow’s manner which, for the moment, had for me an unwholesome fascination.  Memories flashed through my mind of stupid stories which have been told of compacts made with the devil.  I almost felt as if I was standing in the actual presence of one of the powers of evil.  I thought of my love for Marjorie,—­which had revealed itself after all these years; of the delight of holding her in my arms, of feeling the pressure of her lips to mine.  As my gaze met his, the lower side of what the conquest of this fair lady would mean, burned in my brain; fierce imaginings blazed before my eyes.  To win her,—­only to win her!