"But it's true," she said.

"Who employed you?" he asked sharply.

"I can't tell you that," she said slowly.

"Then how can I believe you?" he asked her.

"But it's the truth," she insisted. "For what other reason should I be here?"

"Women have collected jewels before now for themselves as well as their governments," he reminded her.

She flushed. "Do you wish to insult me?"

"I don't think you quite realize your position," he said. "I find you here trying to steal something of mine. If you tell me the name of the man, or men, under whose orders you are acting, I may be able to believe."

"I can't tell you," she cried; "I can't tell you."

"It's most likely to be Bangs," he said meditatively, and then turned to her quickly. "It was John H. Bangs of the secret service who sent you."

At all costs she knew she must keep the name of Daniel Taylor from him.

To admit that it was a fellow official would do no harm.

"Yes," she said; "it was."

Contempt looked from his face. "You lie, Miss Cartwright, you lie!"

"Mr. Denby!" she cried.

"I've no time for politeness now," he told her. "There is no Bangs in the secret service."

"But you, how can you know?" she said, fighting for time.

"It's my business to know my opponents," he observed. "Can't you tell the truth?"

"I can't tell you who it was," she persisted, "but if you'll just give me the necklace--"

He laughed scornfully at her childish request. Her manner puzzled him extremely. He had seen her fence and cross-examine, use her tongue with the adroitness of an old hand at intrigue, and yet she was simple, guileless enough to ask him to hand over the necklace.

"And if I refuse you'll call the men in who seized Mr. Vaughan, thinking it was I, and let them get the right man this time?"

"I don't know," she said despairingly. "What else can I do? I can't fail."

"Nor can I," he snapped, "and don't intend to, either. Do you know what happens to a man who smuggles in the sort of thing I did and resists the officials as I shall do, and is finally caught? I've seen it, and I know. It's prison, Miss Cartwright, and gray walls and iron bars. It means being herded for a term of years with another order of men, the men who are crooked at heart; it means the losing of all one's hopes in prison gloom and coming out debased and suspected by every man set in authority over you, for evermore. I've sometimes gone sick at seeing men who have done as I am doing, but have not escaped. I'm not going to prison, Miss Cartwright, remember that."

"But I don't want you to," she cried eagerly, so eagerly, that he groaned to think her magnificent acting should be devoted to such a scene as this. "I don't want you to."

"Then there's only one way out of it for both of us," he said, coming nearer.

"What?" she asked fervently.

"Tell them you've failed, that you couldn't find it anywhere."

"I couldn't," she said vehemently.

There was a certain studied contempt in his manner which hurt her badly.

And to know that he would always regard her as an adventuress, unprincipled and ready to sell herself for the rewards of espionage, and never have even one pleasant and genuine memory of her, made her desperate.

"I didn't intend you to lose on the transaction," he said coldly. "I'll give you ten thousand dollars."

"Oh, no, no!" she cried, "you don't understand."

"Twenty thousand, then," he said. "Only you and I would know. Your princ.i.p.als could never hold it against you. Isn't it a good offer?"

She made a gesture of despair. "It's no good."

"Twenty thousand no good!" he jeered. "Think again, Miss Cartwright. It will pay you better to stand in with me than give me up."

"No, no!" she cried, half hysterically.

"It's all I can afford," he said. Her manner seemed so strange, that for the first time since he had found her in his room, he began to doubt whether, after all, it was merely the splendid acting he had supposed.

"I can't accept," she told him. "I've _got_ to get that necklace; it means more than any money to me."

He looked at her keenly, seeking to gauge the depth of her emotion.

"Then they've got some hold on you," he a.s.serted.

"No," she a.s.sured him, "I must get the necklace."

"So you're going to make me fight you then?" he questioned.

"I've got to fight," she exclaimed.

"Look here," he said, after a moment's pause, "let's get this thing right. You won't accept any--shall we call it compromise?--and you won't tell me for whom you are acting. And you won't admit that you are doing this because someone has such a hold on you that you must obey. Is that right, so far?"

For a moment she had a wild idea of telling him, of putting an end to the scene that was straining her almost to breaking-point. She knew he could be chivalrous and tender, and she judged he could be ruthless and hard if necessity compelled. But above all, and even stronger than her fear of irrevocably breaking with him and being judged hereafter as one unworthy, was the dread of Taylor and that warrant that could at his will send Amy to prison and her mother possibly to her grave. She hardened herself to go through with the ordeal.

"So far you are right," she admitted.

"Then it remains only for us two to fight. I hate fighting women. A few hours ago I would have sworn that you and I never could fight, but a few hours have shown me that I'm as liable to misread people as--as Monty, for example. You say you've got to fight. Very well then; I accept the challenge, and invite you to witness my first shot."

He walked to the door through which she had come and opening it, took the key from her side of it, locked it, and put the key in his pocket.

"What do you mean?" she cried.

"Merely that I'm going to keep you here," he retorted. "I was afraid we might be interrupted."

"Open that door!" she commanded quickly.