"Good!" he said; and his voice had changed also, changed from its faltering tone of appeal to one of steadfast resolution, the steadiness of desperation. "I have made my appeal to you, Falconer, and I gather that I have failed to move you; that you intend to exact your revenge by--denouncing me!"

Falconer nodded coolly.

"And you think that I could endure to live under such a threat, to walk about with the sword of Damocles over my head? You ought to know me better, Falconer. I will not live to endure the shame you can inflict on me, I will not live to tempt you by the sight of me to take your revenge. I shall die to-night."

Falconer eyed him intently, and carefully selected a fresh cigar. When he had as carefully lit it, he said callously:

"That's your business, of course. I shouldn't venture to interfere with any plan of that kind. So you'd sneak out of it, eh, Orme? Sneak out of it, and leave that young fellow to bear the brunt? Well, I'm sorry for him! He seems the right sort--deuced good-looking and high-cla.s.s--yes, I'm d----d sorry for him!"

Once again Sir Stephen's lips twitched and the big drops of sweat stood on his brow. He stood for a minute looking from right to left like a hunted animal at bay--then with something between a groan and a cry of savagery, he spring towards Falconer with his hands outstretched and making for his tormentor's throat.

Before he could sweep the table aside and get at him, Falconer whipped a revolver from his pocket and aimed it at Sir Stephen.

"You fool!" he said in his harsh, grating voice, "did you think I was such an idiot as to trust myself alone with you unarmed? Did you think I'd forgotten what sort of man you were, or imagined that you'd so changed that I could trust you? Bah! Sit down! Stand back, or, by Heaven, I'll shoot you as I would a dog!"

Sir Stephen shrank back, his hand to his heart, his eyes distended, his face livid as if he were choking and sank into a chair. Falconer returned the revolver into his pocket, and with his foot pushed the inlaid Oriental table towards his host and victim.

"There! Take some brandy! You're too old to play these tricks! That heart of yours was never worth much in the old days, and I daresay it's still more groggy. Besides, we're not in a mining camp or the backwoods now." He sneered. "We're in Sir Stephen Orme's palatial villa on Lake Bryndermere."

Sir Stephen stretched out his hand and felt for the decanter, as if he were suddenly blind and could not see it, and poured himself out some brandy. Falconer watched him narrowly, critically.

"Better? Look here, Orme, take my advice and keep a guard on your emotions: you can't afford to have any with a heart like that."

He paused and waited until Sir Stephen's ashy face had resumed a less deathly pallor.

"And now I'll answer your appeal--I don't intend to denounce you!"

Sir Stephen turned to him with a gesture of incredulity.

"Sounds strange, doesn't it? Humph! Doesn't it strike you that I've had my revenge already? If there is a sweeter one than to see the man who has sold you grovelling at your feet, and praying for mercy, than I don't know it! The great Sir Stephen Orme, too!" He laughed sneeringly.

"No, if I'd meant to give you away, Orme, I should have done it to-night in your swell drawing-room, with all your swell guests round you, with your son--ay, and my daughter--to hear the story--the story of Black Steve! But I didn't mean it, and I don't--"

Sir Stephen drew a long breath of relief, and drank some more brandy.

"Thank G.o.d!" he murmured. "What can I say--what can I do to--to express my grat.i.tude--my sense of your forbearance, Falconer?"

Falconer, with his eyes narrowed to slits, looked at him keenly.

"Oh, I'll dispense with your grat.i.tude, Orme. We'll agree to forgive and--forget. This is the last word we'll say about it."

Sir Stephen, as if he could scarcely believe his ears, gazed at his magnanimous foe in silence.

"No half measures with me--you remember me of old," said Falconer. "The subject's done with," he moved his thick hand as he were sweeping it away. "Pa.s.s the whiskey. Thanks. Now, let's have the chat you kept me up for."

Sir Stephen wiped his lips and forced a smile.

"Tell me about yourself; what you have been doing since we--er--all this long time."

Falconer shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, it isn't as interesting a story as yours," he said. "I've just rubbed along with bad and good luck in streaks; fortunately for me, the good ones were thicker and more frequent than the bad ones. Lake yourself I married; like yourself, I'm a widower. I've one child--Maude. She's been at school and under the care of some people on the Continent, while I've been at work; and I've come to England now to settle down. That tells enough of my story. I know yours, as the rest of the world does. You're famous, you see."

There was a pause; then he looked over his gla.s.s, and said:

"What's you little game at the present moment, Orme?"

Sir Stephen looked at him interrogatively, as if he were still rather confused by the terrible scene which they had gone through.

"Why have you built this place and got all these people here?" said Falconer. "I know enough of Wirsch and Griffinberg and the Beltons to be aware chat they wouldn't come down to the lakes at this time of the year unless there was something worth coming for, something--and a pretty good sum--to be made."

Sir Stephen looked down at the floor for a moment, as if he were considering; then he leant forward.

"I'll tell you," he said, with an air of decision, and with a return of his usual coolness and aplomb. A dash of colour rose to his face, his fine eyes grew bright; he was the "man of affairs," the great financier again. "It's Africa this time," he said, in a low voice, and with a glance at the door. "I've another treaty--"

Falconer nodded.

"I am making for a concession--a charter from the government."

Falconer nodded again.

"And I want a railway from Danville to Bualbec." His voice almost sank to a whisper. "Griffinberg, Wirsch, and the rest are with me--or nearly so--I have got them down to clench the matter. There are millions in it--if I can bring it off; there is what is worth more than millions to me--"

Falconer nodded.

--"A peerage for Sir Stephen Orme," said Falconer, with a grim smile.

"For Sir Stephen Orme's boy!" said Sir Stephen, with a flush, and a flash of the dark eyes. "It is for his sake that I am making this last throw; for my boy's, Falconer. For myself I am content--why shouldn't I be? But for him--ah, well, you've seen him! You'll understand!"

Falconer leant back and smoked in silence.

"Plaistow is working the Colonial Office, the Beltons are feeling their way in the city; Wirsch--but you know how the thing is done! I've got them down here that they may work it quietly, that I may have them under my eye--"

"And the lords and ladies--they're to have a finger in the pie because, though they can't help you in the African business, they can in the matter of the peerage?"

Sir Stephen smiled. "You'll stand in with us, Falconer? Don't refuse me! Let me make some reparation--some atonement for the past!" He rose and stood smiling, an imposing figure with his white hair and brilliant eyes. Falconer got up slowly and stiffly.

"Thanks. I'll think it over. It's a big thing, as you say, and it will either make you--"

--"Or break me!" said Sir Stephen, but he laughed confidently.

Falconer nodded.

"I'll go up now," he said.

Sir Stephen went to the door with him, and held out his hand.

"Good-night, Falconer!" he said. "Thank you--for my boy's sake!"

Falconer took the warm hand in his cold one and held it for a moment, then dropped it.

"Good-night!" he said, with a nod and a sidelong glance.