"Rada!" Mostyn spoke her name boldly. He had noticed the trembling of the little white hand which had dropped the notes upon the table; he had noticed, too, a tone of desperation in the girl's voice--a tone which she had attempted to conceal by assumed bravado. He seized her hand before she could draw it away, and held it tightly in his own. "Rada, where did you get that money?" She struggled with him, but ineffectually. "What does it matter to you where I got the money," she panted, "and how dare you call me Rada? Let me go. I've paid my debt, and that's all I came for." "I don't want the money." He took the notes in his free hand, crushing them in his strong fingers. "Don't you understand that Castor is yours already? I've given him back to your father, who has accepted him on your behalf. He made no suggestion of repaying the thousand pounds, and I know that it isn't from him that you've got the money." A suspicion of the truth had flashed into Mostyn's brain, and he spoke sternly, keeping his eyes fixed upon the girl's face. She made another effort to release her hand, but a more feeble one. Somehow the touch of Mostyn's fingers upon her wrist, the firm grip of them, was not unpleasing to her; she felt his mastery, she felt that she was dealing with a man. "What right have you to question me?" she panted. "No right--except that I love you." The words came out against his will; he had had no intention whatever of speaking them. "You love me!" Suddenly she ceased to struggle. A look that was almost one of terror came into her eyes. Of his own accord Mostyn released her hand. She stood staring at him, motionless, save for the quick rise and fall of her bosom. "You love me!" she repeated, then she broke out into wild, almost hysterical, laughter. "Yes, you little untamed, self-willed thing! I do love you, and I'm not going to let you make a fool of yourself. I shouldn't have told you I cared, if it had not been for that." "But you love me!" she repeated, breaking off in her laughter. "Why do you love me? I can't understand it. I've never been even nice to you--I've been a little beast. And we've hardly met more than four times in our lives. Yet you love me." "Heaven knows why," he returned. "Who can understand or explain these things? You've wound yourself round my heart in some extraordinary way. I've hated and loved you at the same time. You've never been out of my thoughts. Sometimes I don't know even now----"