Stafford’s lips curled with contempt.  “Don’t squirm so, Fellowes.  I’m not going to use it.  But Mr. Byng had it, and he was going to use it.  He was on his way to do it when I appeared.  I stopped him . . .  I will tell you how.  I endeavoured to make him believe that she was absolutely innocent, that you had only been an insufferably insolent, presumptuous, and lecherous cad—­which is true.  I said that, though you deserved shooting, it would only bring scandal to Rudyard Byng’s honourable wife, who had been insulted by the lover of Al’mah and the would-be betrayer of an honest girl—­of Jigger’s sister....  Yes, you may well start.  I know of what stuff you are, how you had the soul and body of one of the most credulous and wonderful women in the world in your hands, and you went scavenging.  From Al’mah to the flower-girl! . . .  I think I should like to kill you myself for what you tried to do to Jigger’s sister; and if it wasn’t here”—­he handled the little steel weapon with an eager fondness—­” I think I’d do it.  You are a pest.”

Cowed, shivering, abject, Fellowes nervously fell back.  His body crashed upon the keys of the piano, producing a hideous discord.  Startled, he sprang aside and with trembling hands made gestures of appeal.

“Don’t—­don’t!  Can’t you see I’m willing!  What is it you want me to do?  I’ll do it.  Put it away....  Oh, my God—­Oh!” His bloodless lips were drawn over his teeth in a grimace of terror.

With an exclamation of contempt Stafford put the weapon back into his pocket again.  “Pull yourself together,” he said.  “Your life is safe for the moment; but I can say no more than that.  After I had proved the lady’s innocence—­you understand, after I had proved the lady’s innocence to him—­”

“Yes, I understand,” came the hoarse reply.

“After that, I said I would deal with you; that he could not be trusted to do so.  I said that you would leave England within twenty-four hours, and that you would not return within three years.  That was my pledge.  You are prepared to fulfil it?”

“To leave England!  It is impossible—­”

“Perhaps to leave it permanently, and not by the English Channel, either, might be worse,” was the cold, savage reply.  “Mr. Byng made his terms.”

Fellowes shivered.  “What am I to do out of England—­but, yes, I’ll go, I’ll go,” he added, as he saw the look in Stafford’s face and thought of the revolver so near to Stafford’s hand.

“Yes, of course you will go,” was the stern retort.  “You will go, just as I say.”

“What shall I do abroad?” wailed the weak voice.

“What you have always done here, I suppose—­live on others,” was the crushing reply.  “The venue will be changed, but you won’t change, not you.  If I were you, I’d try and not meet Jigger before you go.  He doesn’t know quite what it is, but he knows enough to make him reckless.”

Fellowes moved towards the door in a stumbling kind of way.  “I have some things up-stairs,” he said.