She turned away as if overcome, and with an unsteady hand poured some more whisky into her tumbler and raised it to her lips. "I laughed because I found it difficult to believe you really loved me, Mr. Despard." Stepping forward he seized her wrist and swung her round. He had just called her a bad actress, but she acted well enough now to deceive him. "You knew I wanted you," he said huskily. The colour ebbed and flowed from her face. "Oh, yes, I knew that, but——" "I want you now," he whispered. She pretended to try and drag her hand away. "Why have you only just said so?" "Because I knew Dale still stood between us. Because you have done your best to avoid me, and have tried to set Rupert’s father and Sir Reginald Crichton against me." "Oh, can’t you understand my feelings," she cried piteously. "I loved Rupert and I knew that he loved me, and I had injured him in trying to save him. It was my duty before everything else to clear his name.... And I was always a little afraid of you—perhaps because I knew you were Rupert’s rival." Despard drew in his breath sharply as he inhaled the perfume of her hair. She raised her eyes an instant, then lowered them. In every way she was the direct antithesis of Marjorie Dale. The latter was gentle, innocent. Ruby knew how to love as she knew how to hate; a woman with hot blood in her veins, a woman with passion. Her lips gleamed moist and red in the dull light. Suddenly he flung his arms around her and kissed her. She gave a little cry, struggled for a few moments, then lay quite still and limp. Despard bent over her, feasting his eyes on her beauty. Again he pressed his lips to hers. "I’m leaving London to-morrow for a holiday abroad. I’m going where there’s sunshine, flowers, and music. You’ll come with me, Ruby—far away from this dull, prosaic city. We’ll go where there’s life and colour and amusement. I’m rich now, there isn’t a whim of yours I can’t satisfy." She started, stared, and wrenched herself free. She was still acting superbly. "No—you mustn’t tempt me. I can’t—not until Rupert’s innocence is proved.... Duty must come before love—though I don’t even know whether I do love you." Despard advanced, but she retreated. "I’ll make you love me," he whispered. The clock struck. He glanced at it. Eleven! Marjorie would not come now. To-morrow she would probably show his letter to her lover or her father. They would realise quickly enough the threat it contained. The sooner he got away the better. "I’ll teach you to love me, Ruby. Come, let me kiss your lips again—they are sweeter than wine and more intoxicating." She laughed hysterically. The spirit had gone to her head, but she fought to keep her brain clear. "Prove your love!" she cried, stretching out her hands to keep him off. "Prove it!" "Gad, what an obstinate little vixen it is!" he said between his teeth. "What does this fellow Rupert Dale matter to you?"