Thus admonished, George proceeded to giver her such a version of his melancholy tale as best suited him, needless to say not a full one, but his hearer’s imagination easily supplied the gaps, and, as he proceeded, a slow smile crept over her face as she conjured up the suppressed details of the scene in the lane.

“Curse you! what are you laughing at?  You came here to listen, not laugh,” broke out George furiously, when he saw it.

She made no answer, and he continued his thrilling tale without comment on her part.

“Now,” he said, when it was finished, “what is to be done?”

“There is nothing to be done; you have failed to win her affections, and there is an end of the matter.”

“Then you mean I must give it up?”

“Yes, and a very good thing too, for the ridiculous arrangement that you have entered into with Philip would have half-ruined you, and you would be tired of the girl in a month.”

“Now, look you here, Anne,” said George, in a sort of hiss, and standing over her in a threatening attitude, “I have suspected for some time that you were playing me false in this business, and now I am sure of it.  You have put the girl up to treating me like this, you treacherous snake; you have struck me from behind, you Red Indian in petticoats.  But, look here, I will be square with you; you shall not have all the laugh on your side.”

“George, you must be mad.”

“You shall see whether I am mad or not.  Did you see what the brigands did to a fellow they caught in Greece the other day for whom they wanted ransom?  First, they sent his ear to his friends, then his nose, then his foot, and, last of all, his head—­all by post, mark you.  Well, dear Anne, that is just how I am going to pay you out.  You shall have a week to find a fresh plan to trap the bird you have frightened, and, if you find none, first, I shall post one of those interesting letters that I have yonder to your husband—­anonymously, you know—­not a very compromising one, but one that will pique his curiosity and set him making inquiries; then I shall wait another week.”

Lady Bellamy could bear it no longer.  She sprang up from her chair, pale with anger.

“You fiend in human form, what is it, I wonder, that has kept me so long from destroying you and myself too?  Oh! you need not laugh; I have the means to do it, if I choose:  I have had them for twenty years.”

George laughed again, hoarsely.

“Quite penny-dreadful, I declare.  But I don’t think you will come to that; you would be afraid, and, if you do, I don’t much care—­I am pretty reckless, I can tell you.”