"I can tell about your connection with Gabriel Mostyn, in regard to that boy, his son--who disappeared." "I had nothing to do with it," she muttered, shrinking from him. "And Manuel Lopez." "Be silent!" "And that little gambling saloon at Lima." "Hush! for God's sake. You will ruin me." "I intend to," said Eustace relentlessly, "unless----" and he pointed to the desk. Without saying a word, she arose to her feet, and dragging herself slowly across the room sat down at the desk and began to write. Eustace said nothing, but remained standing by the sofa with a smile of satisfaction on his massive features. Nothing was heard in the room but the steady ticking of the clock, and the scratching of Mrs. Veilsturm's pen as it moved rapidly over the paper. In a few minutes she came back to him holding out a sheet of paper, which he read carefully without taking it out of her hand. "That will do," he said quietly. "Will you be so kind as to put it into an envelope and direct it?" Darting a look of hatred at him, which showed how hard it was for her to control her temper, she returned to the desk and did what he asked. Then, leaving it on the blotting-paper, she went to her seat by the window, while Eustace, picking up the letter, glanced at the address and slipped it into his inner pocket. "And about leaving San Remo?" he asked, turning towards Mrs. Veilsturm. "I will leave in three days," she replied harshly. "Will that suit you? "Yes! I won't see you again. _Bon voyage_." He turned to go, but Mrs. Veilsturm's voice arrested him. "Of course you will say nothing about South America?" she said quietly. "No! You have done your part, and I will do mine." "I wouldn't go to Lima again if I were you," said Mrs. Veilsturm, with deadly hatred, "it might be dangerous." "I've no doubt of that," replied Eustace carelessly. "If you want to turn the tables you had better send your emissaries to Africa." He left the room without another word, and Cleopatra, sitting at the window, saw him walking down the garden path. She was holding her handkerchief in her hands, and with a sudden anger tore it in two. "If it had only been in South America," she said in a low, fierce voice. "Oh, if it had only been in South America!" CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE LAST TEMPTATION. "Death ever rends asunder marriage bonds, So should he die, this husband undesired, She would be free to woo and wed again And I might haply gain her hand, her heart. Yet there is folly in this argument, For such a course would breed but sterile love, Seeing the first link in the chain of circumstance Is ominous indeed--a dead man's grave."