Their eyes met. Her face was hard and bold—his, cowardly and ghastly. She clenched her hands and leaned forward; her voice was scarcely audible. Mr Pick dropped his oily black head and listened. “He turned me out of his box at the Opera; he struck you—do you hear? he kicked you!” The Jew’s face grew chalky. “Today he stands between you and your uncle, you and wealth, you and me! Do you understand? Cowards are stupid. You claim Spanish blood. But Spanish blood does not forget insults. Is yours only the blood of a Spanish Jew? Bah! Must I talk? You saw him? He is here. Alive. And he kicked you. And he stands between you and riches, you and me, you and—life!” They sat silent, she holding him fascinated with her little black eyes. His jaw fallen, the expression of his loose mouth was horrible. Suddenly she thrust her face close to his. Her eyes burned and the blood surged through the distended veins under the cracking rouge. Her lips formed the word, “Tonight!” Without a word he crept from his seat and followed her out of the room by a side door. Gethryn, lounging in the smoking-room meanwhile, was listening with delight to the bellowing of Sir Griffin Damby, who stood at the clerk’s desk in the hall. “Don’t contradict me!” he roared—the weak-eyed clerk had not dreamed of doing so—“Don’t you contradict me! I tell you it’s the same man!” “But Excellence,” entreated the clerk, “we do not know—” “What! Don’t know! Don’t I tell you?” “We will telegraph to Paris—” “Telegraph to hell! Where’s my man? Here! Dawson! Do you remember that infernal Jew at Monaco? He’s here. He’s in there!” jerking an angry thumb at the café door. “Keep him in sight till the police come for him. If he says anything, kick him into the lake.” Dawson bowed. The clerk tried to say that he would telegraph instantly, but Sir Griffin barked in his face and snorted his way down the hall, followed by the valet. Rex, laughing, threw down his cigarette and sauntered over to the clerk. “Whom does the Englishman want kicked out?” The clerk made a polite gesture, asking Rex to wait until he had finished telegraphing. At that moment the postillion’s horn heralded the coming of the mail coach, and that meant the speedy arrival of the last western train. Rex forgot Sir Griffin and strolled over to the post office to watch the distribution of the letters and to get his own.