"Don't look at me like that, you witch," he muttered, covering his face with his large hands. "You've got the evil eye, confound you." Mrs. Belswin, leaning forward, held up her forefinger and shook it gently at the lawyer. "It won't do, my friend; I tell you it won't do. You've tried bullying, you've tried whining; neither of them go down with me. If you have any business to do you've got to put it aside for me. If you have to see clients you can't and won't see them till I choose. Do you hear what I say, you legal Caliban? I've come here for a purpose, Mr. Dombrain--that, I believe, is your present name--for a purpose, sir. Do you hear?" "Yes, I hear. What is your purpose?" She laughed; but not mirthfully. "To tell you a story." "I don't want stories. Go to a publisher." "Certainly. I'll go to the Scotland Yard firm. Hold your tongue, sir. Sneering doesn't come well from an animal like you. I have no time to waste." "Neither have I." "That being the case with both of us, sit still." Mr. Dombrain stopped his wriggling and became as a stone statue of an Egyptian king, with his hands resting on his knees. "Now I'll tell you my story." "Can't you do without that?" "No, my good man, I can't. To make you understand what I want I must tell you all my story. Some of it you know, some of it you don't know. Be easy. It's short and not sweet. Listen." And Mr. Dombrain did listen, not because he wanted to, but because this woman with the fierce eyes had an influence over him which he, bully, coarse-minded man as he was, could not resist. When he recollected what she knew and what she could tell, and would tell if she chose, a cold sweat broke out all over him, and he felt nerveless as a little child. Therefore, for these and divers other reasons, Mr. Dombrain listened--with manifest reluctance, it is true, but still he listened. "We will commence the story in New Zealand twenty years--say twenty-two years ago. One Rupert Pethram, the younger son of a good family, come out there to make his fortune. He made it by the simple process of marrying a Maori half-caste, called Jezebel Manners. You see I don't scruple to tell everything about myself, dear friend. Well, Mr. and Mrs. Pethram got on very well together for a time, but she grew tired of being married to a fool. He was a fool, wasn't he?" She waited for a reply, so Dombrain, against his will, was forced to give her one. "Yes, he was a fool--to marry you." "The wisest thing he ever did in his life, seeing what a lot of property I brought him. But I couldn't get on with him. My mother was a pure-blooded Maori. I am only half a white, and I hated his cold phlegmatic disposition, his supercilious manners. I was--I am hot-blooded, ardent, quick-tempered. Fancy a woman like me tied to a cold-blooded fish like Rupert Pethram. Bah! it was madness. I hated him before my child was born; afterwards I hated him more than ever. Then the other man came along." "There always is another man!"