"Owen, you have called the hand for the first round. It is on me, and devilish hard. I could ill afford the cold cash I spent to hire that boat. I sincerely trust your counterpart will choke upon the good victuals I put aboard or else make himself so beastly drunk upon the liquor that he will fall overboard in the bay of Biscay or somewhere along the French coast." "Don't reproach me for doing just what you would have done had you been in my shoes, and the plot been revealed to you, Wellington." The other brightened up a trifle. "You may be sure I would--but evidently you received a pretty strong tip--who betrayed me?" He spoke carelessly, but there was a devilish gleam in his blazing eyes that told the state of his feelings toward the unknown. Owen would sooner have cut his right hand off than betray the source of his knowledge. "I have means of acquiring information that are unequalled outside of Scotland Yard. For some time, Wellington, I had looked upon you as an agreeable acquaintance. That time has gone by. You have stripped the mask from your face, and I know you as a wolf preying upon society." "Sir!" "Oh! you needn't flare up and look ferocious. I say this to your teeth. If you desire the satisfaction one gentleman demands from another I am always at your service, whether it be with bare knuckles, a revolver or the sword. I believe I am equally at home with all, and will take great pleasure in puncturing your precious skin." "Well, you are devilish frank, to say the least," declared Jerome, mastering his ugly mood, since he knew full well the disadvantage falling to the man who gave way to passion. "I expect to be, since it is the only policy to use when dealing with such men as you. I might warn my cousin against your attentions, but it would be useless, since she has undoubtedly sized you up as an ordinary adventurer long before I dreamed of it. However, my dear fellow, one last word of warning before I quit your society. If you take it upon yourself to _annoy_ Cleo--if she appeals to me for assistance I shall camp on your trail until I finally '_get_' you, as they put it over in my country." There was no boastful spirit in his manner, only a grim determination that carried weight. Wellington, looking squarely into those calm orbs that held his own in a species of thralldom knew he had the fight of his life before him. Perhaps he saw with prophetic vision, some dim inkling of his own downfall--it is a long road that has no turn--success had visited him many times in the past, but there was for him as for all adventurers, a _dies irae_ and it might come through Roderic Owen. "I'll consider myself warned, Owen, and if trouble comes my blood be upon my own head. The only remark I shall venture to make is, that as yet I have never failed in any serious undertaking which engaged my attention," he said, sneeringly. "Indeed. Then let us hope you are not very serious about this affair."