The manoeuvre sobered him.  He did not move, but in two breaths forced himself to cease to tremble, and subdued every symptom of his passion.  Only his face remained sinister.

“Graceful creature!” he observed, sardonic.  “Such agility!  But what good will that do you, do you think?  Eh?  Tell me that!”

It was her turn to shiver, and inwardly she did, who was never quite able to combat the fear which Victor could inspire in her by such demonstrations of the power of his will.  The self-control which he had always at his command was something that passed her understanding; it seemed inhuman, it terrified her.

Nevertheless, so exigent was this strait, she continued to confront him with a face of unflinching defiance.

In a voice whose steadiness surprised her she declared:  “The letters are mine.  You shan’t have them.”

“Undeceive yourself:  I’ll have them though you never leave this room alive.”

More to give herself time to think than in any hope of moving him, she began to plead: 

“Let me have them, Victor—­let me go.”

Smiling darkly, he shook his head.

“The letters mean nothing to you.  What good—?”

He interrupted impatiently:  “I shall publish them.”

“Impossible—!”

“But I shall.”

Aghast, she protested:  “You can’t mean that!”

“Why not?  The world shall know your true reason for leaving me—­that you were the mistress of another man—­and who that man was!”

Staring, she uttered in a low voice:  “Never!”

“Or,” he amended, deliberately, “you may keep them, burn them, do what you will with them—­on fair terms—­my terms.”

She said nothing, but her dilate eyes held fixedly to his.  He moved a pace or two nearer, his voice dropped to a lower key, the light she had learned to loathe flickered in the depths of his eyes.

“Come back to me, Sofia!  I can’t live without you ...”

Her lips moved to deny him, but made no sound.  Now it was revealed to her, the way.

“Come back to me, Sofia!”

His hand crept along the edge of the table and lifted, quivering, to capture hers.  She steeled herself to endure its touch, against sickening repulsion she fought to achieve a smile that would carry a suggestion of at least forgetfulness.

“And if I do—?” she murmured.

He gave a violent start, blood suffused his face darkly, his arms leapt out to enfold her.  She stepped back, evading him with a movement of coquetry that served, as it was intended, to inflame him the more.

“Wait!” she insisted.  “Answer me first:  If I return to you—­then what?”

“Everything shall be as you wish—­everything forgotten—­I will think of nothing but how to make you happy—­”

“And I may have my letters?”

He nodded, swallowing hard, as if the concession well-nigh choked him.