“I take my dying oath,” said Miss Spencer, standing up a little way from the table, “I take my dying oath I didn’t know Mr. Dimmock was dead till I saw it in the newspaper.”
“You swear you had no suspicion of it?”
“I swear I hadn’t.”
Nella was inclined to believe the statement. The woman and the girl looked at each other in the tawdry, frowsy, lamp-lit room. Miss Spencer nervously patted her yellow hair into shape, as if gradually recovering her composure and equanimity. The whole affair seemed like a dream to Nella, a disturbing, sinister nightmare. She was a little uncertain what to say. She felt that she had not yet got hold of any very definite information. “Where is Prince Eugen now?” she asked at length.
“I don’t know, miss.”
“He isn’t in this house?”
“No, miss.”
“Ah! We will see presently.”
“They took him away, Miss Racksole.”
“Who took him away? Some of your husband’s friends?”
“Some of his—acquaintances.”
“Then there is a gang of you?”
“A gang of us—a gang! I don’t know what you mean,” Miss Spencer quavered.
“Oh, but you must know,” smiled Nella calmly. “You can’t possibly be so innocent as all that, Mrs. Tom Jackson. You can’t play games with me. You’ve just got to remember that I’m what you call a Yankee girl. There’s one thing that I mean to find out, within the next five minutes, and that is—how your charming husband kidnapped Prince Eugen, and why he kidnapped him. Let us begin with the second question. You have evaded it once.”
Miss Spencer looked into Nella’s face, and then her eyes dropped, and her fingers worked nervously with the tablecloth.
“How can I tell you,” she said, “when I don’t know? You’ve got the whip-hand of me, and you’re tormenting me for your own pleasure.” She wore an expression of persecuted innocence.
“Did Mr. Tom Jackson want to get some money out of Prince Eugen?”
“Money! Not he! Tom’s never short of money.”
“But I mean a lot of money—tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands?”
“Tom never wanted money from anyone,” said Miss Spencer doggedly.
“Then had he some reason for wishing to prevent Prince Eugen from coming to London?”
“Perhaps he had. I don’t know. If you kill me, I don’t know.” Nella stopped to reflect. Then she raised the revolver. It was a mechanical, unintentional sort of action, and certainly she had no intention of using the weapon, but, strange to say, Miss Spencer again cowered before it. Even at that moment Nella wondered that a woman like Miss Spencer could be so simple as to think the revolver would actually be used. Having absolutely no physical cowardice herself, Nella had the greatest difficulty in imagining that other people could be at the mercy of a bodily fear. Still, she saw her advantage, and used it relentlessly, and with as much theatrical gesture as she could command. She raised the revolver till it was level with Miss Spencer’s face, and suddenly a new, queer feeling took hold of her. She knew that she would indeed use that revolver now, if the miserable woman before her drove her too far. She felt afraid—afraid of herself; she was in the grasp of a savage, primeval instinct. In a flash she saw Miss Spencer dead at her feet—the police—a court of justice—the scaffold. It was horrible.
“Speak,” she said hoarsely, and Miss Spencer’s face went whiter.
“Tom did say,” the woman whispered rapidly, awesomely, “that if Prince Eugen got to London it would upset his scheme.”
“What scheme? What scheme? Answer me.”
“Heaven help me, I don’t know.” Miss Spencer sank into a chair. “He said Mr. Dimmock had turned tail, and he should have to settle him and then Rocco—”
“Rocco! What about Rocco?” Nella could scarcely hear herself. Her grip of the revolver tightened.
Miss Spencer’s eyes opened wider; she gazed at Nella with a glassy stare.
“Don’t ask me. It’s death!” Her eyes were fixed as if in horror.
“It is,” said Nella, and the sound of her voice seemed to her to issue from the lips of some third person.
“It’s death,” repeated Miss Spencer, and gradually her head and shoulders sank back, and hung loosely over the chair. Nella was conscious of a sudden revulsion. The woman had surely fainted. Dropping the revolver she ran round the table. She was herself again—feminine, sympathetic, the old Nella. She felt immensely relieved that this had happened. But at the same instant Miss Spencer sprang up from the chair like a cat, seized the revolver, and with a wild movement of the arm flung it against the window. It crashed through the glass, exploding as it went, and there was a tense silence.
“I told you that you were a fool,” remarked Miss Spencer slowly, “coming here like a sort of female Jack Sheppard, and trying to get the best of me. We are on equal terms now. You frightened me, but I knew I was a cleverer woman than you, and that in the end, if I kept on long enough, I should win. Now it will be my turn.”
Dumbfounded, and overcome with a miserable sense of the truth of Miss Spencer’s words, Nella stood still. The idea of her colossal foolishness swept through her like a flood. She felt almost ashamed. But even at this juncture she had no fear. She faced the woman bravely, her mind leaping about in search of some plan. She could think of nothing but a bribe—an enormous bribe.
“I admit you’ve won,” she said, “but I’ve not finished yet. Just listen.”
Miss Spencer folded her arms, and glanced at the door, smiling bitterly.
“You know my father is a millionaire; perhaps you know that he is one of the richest men in the world. If I give you my word of honour not to reveal anything that you’ve told me, what will you take to let me go free?”
“What sum do you suggest?” asked Miss Spencer carelessly.
“Twenty thousand pounds,” said Nella promptly. She had
