"You are inclined to do the prophetess this morning--but don't be such a fearful Cassandra, I beg." She rose from her chair and folded her shawl about her. "I need stay here no longer," she said, "I have told you what I came to say." "Don't be so cruel as to run away so soon," he pleaded; "give my poor room the glory of your presence a little longer. You see to what I was driven before I could force myself to trouble you again. These are not proper apartments for a gentleman; you will admit I had an excuse. The whole thing is miserably humiliating." "I shall be here on Monday," said Elizabeth, ignoring his excuses. "I shall have the money ready for you, but I will not bring it--those letters must be first placed in my hands." "Ah! you are going to drive a hard bargain, I see." "You have evaded so often, cheated me so often; I have given you thousands of dollars--this is the last--take it--enough to make you comfortable for years if you are careful; but the letters come into my possession first, and that paper too." "You really mean to have your freedom, do you?" he asked, jestingly; "to sweep me out of your life for ever; that is hard." "Don't think to cheat me; neither your forged writing or any pretence will answer here. I tell you I am desperate now--you can't force me down a step farther." "You are a magnificent woman!" he exclaimed; "a wonderful woman! I don't believe the country could boast another such." She turned away. "Now you are angry. But let it pass." "Remember what I have said," retorted Elizabeth. "I tell you I am desperate now! At least I shall have placed it out of your power to injure any one but myself. I have reached that point when I will have freedom from your persecutions or drag the ruin down on my own head while crushing you." She was in terrible earnest--he was a sufficient judge of character to see that. It was in her nature to grow so utterly desperate that, whatever her secret might prove, she would find the courage to give it up to her husband and madly urge on the crisis of her fate in all its blackness and horror, rather than endure the slavery and suspense in which she had lived. "There will be no need of all this," he said. "Place in my hands the sum you have promised, and I will at once put it out of my own power to harm you or yours. After all," he continued, with another sneering laugh, "I am selling my claim much too cheaply; twenty-five thousand dollars is a pitiful little sum, considering what I give up." "You can get no more--you cannot frighten me! If you betrayed everything you would ruin your hopes of a single penny. I tell you my husband would perish rather than buy your silence. I know him--he might shoot you down like a dog, but would never pay gold to bind your vicious tongue."