Brooker took the envelope mechanically, regarding his friend steadily, with fixed gaze. At first there was indecision in his countenance, but next instant his face went white with fierce anger and resentment. His hand closed convulsively upon the envelope, crushing it into a shapeless mass, and with a fierce imprecation he cast it from him upon the floor. "No, I'll never touch your money!" he cried, with a gesture, as if shrinking from its contact. "You fear lest Liane should know that you are attempting to buy her just as you would some chattel or other which, for the moment, takes your fancy. But she shall know; and she shall never be your wife." "Very well," answered Zertho, with a contemptuous smile, facing the Captain quickly. "Act as you please, but I tell you plainly, once and for all, that Liane will many me." "She shall not." "She shall!" declared the other, determinedly, looking into his face intently, his black eyes flashing. "And you will use that cheque for her benefit, and in the manner I direct, without telling her anything. You will also bring her to Nice, and stand aside that I may win her, and--" "I'll do nothing of the sort. I'd rather see her dead." Zertho's fingers twitched, as was his habit when excited. Upon his dark sallow face was an expression of cruel, relentless revenge; an evil look which his companion had only seen once before. "Listen, Brooker," he exclaimed in a low, harsh tone, as advancing close to him he bent and uttered some rapid words in his ear, so low that none might hear them save himself. "Good God! Zertho!" cried the unhappy man, turning white to the lips, and glaring at him. "Surely you don't intend to give me away?" he gasped, in a hoarse, terrified whisper. "I do," was the firm reply. "My silence is only in exchange for your assistance. Now you thoroughly understand." "Then you want Liane, my child, as the price of my secret! My God!" he groaned, in a husky, broken voice, sinking back into his chair in an attitude of abject dejection, covering his blanched, haggard face with trembling hands. CHAPTER SEVEN. THE MISSING MARIETTE. In London the January afternoon was wet and cheerless. Alone in his dingy chambers on the third floor of an ancient smoke-begrimed house in Clifford's Inn, one of the old bits of New Babylon now sadly fallen from its once distinguished estate, George Stratfield sat gazing moodily into the fire. In his hand was a letter he had just received from Liane; a strange letter which caused him to ponder deeply, and vaguely wonder, whether after all he had not acted unwisely in sacrificing his fortune for her sake.