“Much warmer,” he said, “only, you see, it isn’t there.”

She started violently at the sound of his voice, but she did not immediately turn around.  When she did so, her demeanour was almost a shock to him.  There was no sign of nervousness or apology in her manner.  Her eyes flashed at him angrily.  She wore a loose red wrap trimmed with white fur, a dishabille unusually and provokingly attractive.

“So you were shamming sleep!” she exclaimed indignantly.

“Entirely,” he admitted.

Neither spoke for a moment.  Her eyes fell upon a tumbler of whisky and soda, which stood on a round table drawn up by the side of his easy-chair.

“I have not come to bed thirsty,” he assured her.  “I had another one downstairs—­to which I helped myself.  This one I brought up to try if I could remember sufficient of my chemistry to determine its contents.  I have been able to decide, to my great relief, that your intention was probably to content yourself with plunging me into only temporary slumber.”

“I wanted you out of the way whilst I searched your rooms,” she told him coolly.  “If you were not such an obstinate, pig-headed, unkind, prejudiced person, it would not have been necessary.”

“Dear me!” he murmured.  “Am I all that?  Won’t you sit down?”

For a moment she looked as though she were about to strike him with the electric torch which she was carrying.  With a great effort of self-control, however, she changed her mind and threw herself into his easy-chair with a little gesture of recklessness.  Julian seated himself opposite to her.  Although she kept her face as far as possible averted, he realised more than ever in those few moments that she was really an extraordinarily beautiful person.  Her very attitude was full of an angry grace.  The quivering of her lips was the only sign of weakness.  Her eyes were filled with cold resentment.

“Well,” she said, “I am your prisoner.  I listen.”

“You are after that packet, I suppose?”

“What sagacity!” she scoffed.  “I trusted you with it, and you behaved like a brute.  You kept it.  It has nothing to do with you.  You have no right to it.”

“Let us understand one another, once and for all,” he suggested.  “I will not even discuss the question of rightful or wrongful possession.  I have the packet, and I am going to keep it.  You cannot cajole it put of me, you cannot steal it from me.  To-morrow I shall take it to London and deliver it to my friend at the Foreign Office.  Nothing could induce me to change my mind.”

She seemed suddenly to be caught up in the vortex of a new emotion.  All the bitterness passed from her expression.  She fell on her knees by his side, sought his hands, and lifted her face, full of passionate entreaty, to his.  Her eyes were dimmed with tears, her voice piteous.

“Do not be so cruel, so hard,” she begged.  “I swear before Heaven that there is no treason in those papers, that they are the one necessary link in a great, humanitarian scheme.  Be generous, Mr. Orden.  Julian!  Give it back to me.  It is mine.  I swear—­”