"Yes, I refuse," he said in a deep intense voice. "I have, it is true, bought and sold many things in my brief and not unblameworthy career, but I have never yet sold a pure woman's life, and by Heaven! I never will!" Zertho stood in abject dismay. He had been utterly unprepared for this. Anger consumed him when he recognised how completely he had been misled, and how suddenly all his plans were checkmated by this man's unexpected caprice. "You've suddenly withdrawn into the paths of rectitude," he observed with a sickly smile when at last he found voice. "It will be a new and interesting experience, no doubt." "Possibly." "Come, Richards," Zertho exclaimed, after a brief pause, "it's useless to prevaricate any longer. Let us settle the business. I intend marrying Liane, but I am ready to admit that this is possible only with your assistance. For the latter I am prepared to continue to pay as I have already done. Name the amount, and the thing can be settled at once." "I will name no amount. I decline to barter away Liane's happiness." "You wish me to name a sum--eh? Well, what do you say to five hundred pounds down? Recollect how much you've already had off me." The other's lip curled contemptuously, as he shook his head. "Well, I'll double it. A thousand." Their gaze met. Max Richards again shook his head. Zertho, with a sudden movement, pulled his wallet from his pocket, withdrew his cheque-book, and taking up a pen from the table, scribbled out a draft upon the Credit Lyonnais, and filled it in for fifty thousand francs. Tearing it out roughly he tossed it across to his companion, exclaiming with a bitter smile,-- "There you are. I've doubled it a third time. Surely that's sufficient as lip-salve?" The other stretched forth his hand unsteadily, hesitated for a single instant, then slowly his thin eager fingers closed upon it. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. A WOMAN'S STORY. When George Stratfield's coffee was brought to his room at the Grand Hotel on the following morning there lay upon the tray a note which had been brought by hand. The superscription was in educated unfamiliar writing, evidently a woman's. Filled with natural curiosity he tore open the envelope and read the following in French:-- "The writer would esteem it a personal favour if Monsieur Stratfield would accord her an interview this evening at any time or place he may appoint. As the matter is urgent she will be obliged if Monsieur would have the goodness to telegraph a reply addressed to Marie Blanc, Poste Restante, Nice, before noon." This mysterious communication he re-read several times. Who, he wondered, was Marie Blanc, and what on earth did she want with him? How, indeed, did she know his name? There was a distinct air of suspicion about it. He tossed the strange letter aside, and thoughtfully drank his coffee and ate his roll.