"Ah! so you are going to be Madame Asmodeus, and unroof my house for the benefit of my neighbours?" And Vassalla, having lighted a cigarette, sat down and prepared to listen. He had not long to wait, for Mrs. Verschoyle burst out into a perfect volley of imprecations in Italian, to which, Vassalla listened very quietly. "You're not improving," he said coolly, when she stopped for want of breath; "but all this is talk. I want to know the reason of your visit." Mrs. Verschoyle took off her gloves, sat down in a chair, and dragging it up to the table, placed her elbows thereon, and began to talk rapidly. "You Maltese dog!" she hissed between her teeth; "I know all--yes, all--did I not meet Signor Clement at the Strada Cristoforo, and did he not tell me that you were as the shadow of my sister Carmelo, and that you wanted to become her husband? speak, you traitor--is it not true?" "Before I answer that question," sad Vassalla, calmly, knocking the ash off his cigarette, "first tell me who is this Signor Clement, that knows so much of my affairs?" "He came from England." "When?" "Shortly after your ship arrived in London." "Did he stop at the Signora Briffa's?" "Yes." "And asked questions?" "He asked me none, but, ah!" with a gesture of impotent rage, "that Dexter, she gave him all the lies of me, I am certain." "Exactly! and he told you that I was making love to Carmela, and advised you to come to England." "How did you know?" asked Mrs. Verschoyle, looking at him with fiery eyes. "Because I have my suspicions that this Clement is a spy." "A spy--for what--on whom?" "For murder--on you." Mrs. Verschoyle grew deathly pale, she clenched her hands, and her two black eyes glared like burning coals at her cousin. "Bah!" she said, at length, making a snatch at one of her gloves; "this is a child's story." "No, upon my honour, it's not. I don't know for certain, but I could swear this man is a spy. Why should he go out to Valletta, lodge at the same house as you, and tell you this about me? Because he wanted you to come to England--because he is employed by an Australian devil called Monteith to hunt you down, and accuse you of the murder of your husband, Leopold Verschoyle." Vassalla arose to his feet while speaking, and went over to the woman, who cowered in her chair like a savage beast, subdued for the moment, by a master's eye. "It's a lie--a lie!" she hissed, tearing her glove, viciously; "who can prove I was on board?" "Carmela." "Carmela?" she bounded to her feet, her face working with fury; "she would not dare!" "She has done so, and told Monteith." "My God! my God!" cried Mrs. Verschoyle, stamping up and down the room; "Oh that my fingers were round her throat? She has taken my lovers from me, and now she'd take my life. Bah!" with a sudden change, "they can't prove anything. You can save me." "Yes, but will I?" Mrs. Verschoyle stole round the table, and laid her arm caressingly round his neck.