‘I do not know. I cannot remember. I only know that your presence now is hateful to me. What sum do you require for those letters? If it was half our fortune I would give it you, sooner than be subjected to further insult. Tell me how much at once. I will sell all my jewels if I cannot raise the money otherwise!’ ‘No, no, I’m not going to press you quite so hard as all that, Nora. I don’t want your jewels, my dear,’ replied Jack Portland, with offensive familiarity. ‘My price is--your silence.’ ‘Silence about what? Do you imagine I am likely to talk about a matter which I would expunge with my lifeblood if I could.’ ‘You mistake me. By your silence, I mean that you must no longer interfere, as you seem inclined to do, between your husband and myself. You must not try to separate us in any way; not in our friendship, nor our pursuits, nor our sports; we like to play cards together--’ ‘_You_ like, you mean,’ she interposed sarcastically. ‘_Plait-il_,’ acquiesced Jack Portland, with an expressive shrug; ‘at anyrate, we have been used to play cards and attend races and generally enjoy ourselves as _bons camarades_, and your ladyship will be good enough not to attempt to put an end to these things, not to remark in that delicately sarcastic way of yours that it is always your humble servant who appears to win. Do I make myself perfectly understood?’ ‘Perfectly,’ said Nora, ‘and if I consent to this, what then?’ ‘Why, that packet of charming letters--twenty-five in all, if I remember rightly--which have afforded me so much consolation under our cruel separation, and which would prove, I feel sure, such very interesting reading for Lord Ilfracombe, shall remain in my custody, safe from all prying eyes except mine.’ ‘But you promised to return them to me,’ argued Nora, and then with the greatness of the stake at issue before her eyes, and forgetting everything but that she was at the mercy of the man before her, the unhappy girl condescended to entreaty. ‘Oh, Mr Portland--Jack,’ she stammered, ‘for God’s sake--for the sake of the past, give me back those letters.’ ‘How nice it is to hear you call me “Jack,”’ said Mr Portland, gazing boldly at her. ‘It almost reconciles me to the great loss I experienced in you. When you call me “Jack” I feel as if I could refuse you nothing.’ ‘Then will you give them to me?’ ‘Certainly, _ma chère_, haven’t I said so a dozen times? Only you must positively wait until I return to town. You women are so terribly unreasonable. And you, for your part, promise never to interfere between my old friend Ilfracombe and myself, and sometimes, to call me “Jack” for the sake of the past.’ Lady Ilfracombe was shivering now as if she had received a cold-water douche. She realised what being in the power of this man meant--that he would torture her, as a cat tortures a mouse, until he had bent her in every way to do his will.