Victor Durnovo was standing with his back to the window, while Jocelyn, in the full light of the afternoon, stood before him. He looked her slowly up and down with a glance of approval which alarmed and disquieted her. “Will you marry me?” he asked. “No!” His black moustache was pushed forward by some motion of the hidden lips. “Why?” “Do you want the real reason?” asked Jocelyn. Victor Durnovo paused for a moment. “Yes,” he said. “Because I not only do not care for you, but I despise and distrust you.” “You are candid,” he said, with an unpleasant little laugh. “Yes.” He moved a little to one side and drew a chair towards him, half-leaning, half-sitting on the back of it. “Then,” he said, “I will be candid with you. I intend you to marry me; I have intended it for a long time. I am not going down on my knees to ask you to do it: that is not my way. But, if you drive me to it, I will make your brother Maurice go down on his knees and beg you to marry me.” “I don't think you will do that,” answered the girl steadily. “Whatever your power over Maurice may be, it is not strong enough for that; you overrate it.” “You think so?” he sneered. “I am sure of it.” Durnovo glanced hastily round the room in order to make sure that they were not overheard. “Suppose,” he said, in a low, hissing voice, “that I possess knowledge that I have only to mention to one or two people to make this place too hot for Maurice Gordon. If he escaped the fury of the natives, it would be difficult to know where he could go to. England would be too hot for him. They wouldn't have him there; I could see to that. He would be a ruined man--an outcast--execrated by all the civilised world.” He was watching her face all the while. He saw the colour leave even her lips, but they were steady and firm. A strange wonder crept into his heart. This woman never flinched. There was some reserved strength within herself upon which she was now drawing. His dealings had all been with half-castes--with impure blood and doubtful descendants of a mixed ancestry. He had never fairly roused a pure-bred English man or woman, and suddenly he began to feel out of his depth. “What is your knowledge?” asked Jocelyn in a coldly measured voice. “I think you had better not ask that; you will be sorry afterwards. I would rather that you thought quietly over what I have told you. Perhaps, on second thoughts, you will see your way to give me some--slight hope. I should really advise it.” “I did not ask your advice. What is your knowledge?” “You will have it?” he hissed. “Yes.” He leant forward, craning his neck, pushing his yellow face and hungering black eyes close into hers. “Then, if you will have it, your brother--Maurice Gordon--is a slave-owner.”