“Don’t think of such a thing,” said he. “You and I are one. We shall face him together. I know that you have your fears for me. You need have none. I can control myself. But that ruffian--one cannot take too elaborate precautions. Such men are not to be depended on. Revolvers are cheap, so is vitriol. I know that type of rascal, and I’ll make my arrangements accordingly. I have met with blackmailers before now, but I’ve not yet met one that adhered strictly to the artistic methods of the profession; they never move without a revolver or a knife--in the case of a woman they trust a good deal to vitriol.” “I’m quite willing to submit to your judgment, Jack,” said she. “I’m not afraid of him. If you say that I should not see him I’ll leave him to you, but I think that I should face him with you by my side.” “So you shall,” said he. And so she did. They had not rehearsed an imaginary scene with the man. They had not exchanged views as to what to say to him. Each knew what was in the other’s mind on the subject, so that any planning was unnecessary. He came early--a man of good presence, he seemed to Jack to be probably from thirty-five to forty years of age. His dark hair was somewhat grizzled and so were his moustache and beard. Priscilla had thought it strange that he had not shaved his face on getting out of gaol and starting life afresh. He had always worn that short, square beard; but it now appeared to her to be shorter and to have much more grey in it. His eyes were queer, neither grey nor hazel; they were not bad eyes, and they had a certain expression of frankness and good spirit at times which was quite pleasing, until the man began to speak, and then the expression changed to one of furtiveness, for he looked at the person whom he was addressing with his head slightly averted so that the pupils of his eyes were not in the centre but awry. The thought that came to Jack Wingfield at the moment of the man’s entrance was that he could easily understand how one might be imposed on by him; but to Priscilla came the thought that she had been right in distrusting him from the first. He had been shown into the library by the order of Jack; the room was empty; Jack kept him waiting for some minutes before he entered, saying: “Good morning. Can I do anything for you, Mr. Blaydon?” “You can,” said the other. “I came here for my wife, and I mean to have her.” And then Priscilla entered. The man threw out both hands in an artificial, stagey way, and took a step or two toward her. “Stay where you are,” said Jack imperatively. “You can talk as well standing where you are. Don’t lay so much as a finger upon her. Now, say what you have to say.”