She looked him straight in the face, her resolution rising. She hated that man whose hands were stained with the blood of Richard Harborne, who had been such a platonic friend to her. "I wish you to understand, now and at once," she said, "that you will have nothing from me." He smiled at her. "Ah! I think you are just a little too hasty, my dear Jean," was his reply. "Remember you are my wife, and that fact you desire to keep a secret. Well, the secret is worth something, surely--even for the sake of your charming little girl." "Yes," she said angrily. "You taunt me with my position--why? Because you want money--you, a thief and an assassin! No; you will have none. I will go to the police and have you arrested." "Do, my dear girl. I wish you would do so, because then your true position as my wife will at once be plain. I shall not be Silas P. Hoggan, homeless and penniless, but Ralph Ansell, husband of the wealthy Countess of Bracondale. Say--what a sensation it would cause in the halfpenny papers, wouldn't it?" Jean shuddered, and shrank back. "And you would be arrested for the murder of Richard Harborne--you, the hired assassin of the Baron," she retorted. "Oh, yes, all is known, I assure you. Not a year ago I found the report among Lord Bracondale's papers, and read it--every word." "And how does he like his private papers being peered into, I wonder?" "Well, at least I now know the truth. You killed Mr. Harborne, and, further, it was you who tampered with Lieutenant Barclay's aeroplane. You can't deny it!" "Why should I deny it? Harborne was your lover. You met him in secret at Mundesley on the previous afternoon. Therefore I killed two birds with one stone. A very alert secret agent was suppressed, and at the same time I was rid of a rival." "He was not my lover!" she protested, her cheeks scarlet. "I loved you, and only you." "Then why don't you love me now? Why not return and be a dutiful wife to me?" "Return!" she gasped. "Never!" "But I shall compel you. You married this man, Bracondale, under false pretences, and he has no right to you. I am your husband." "That I cannot deny," she said, her hands twitching nervously. "But I read of your death in the papers, and believed it to be true," she added in despair. "Well, you seem to have done extremely well for yourself. And you have been living in London all the time?" "Mostly." "I was in London very often. I have seen your name in the papers dozens of times as giving great official receptions and entertainments, yet I confess I never, for a moment, dreamed that the great Countess Bracondale and my wife, Jean, were one and the same person." She shrank at the word "wife." That surely was the most evil day in all her life. She was wondering how best to end that painful interview--how to solve the tragic difficulty which had now arisen--how best to hide her dread secret from Bracondale.