She could not see any relief from this anxiety except repayment, and repayment seemed impossible. ‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. It was not a hard face, but it was resolute. He could not promise that she would ever appear again in that house. Did he intend to kill her now, this instant? Or had she a moment or two to try to save herself? Recalling Leonardo’s dictum, she did not struggle, for that would only tighten the trap about her, and perhaps even spring it. He was never known to err, and was as much dreaded as the jailfever in consequence. Kneebone and Mr.
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