"
"What is the rest I know so well?" He looked closely at her, his long,
mongrel eyes half-closing with covert scrutiny.
"Whatever it is, it is all bad and it is all yours."
"Not all," he retorted coolly. "You forget your Gipsy friend. He did
his part last night, and he's still free."
They had entered the last little stretch of wood in which her home lay,
and she slackened her footsteps slightly. She felt that she had been
unwise in challenging him; that she ought to try persistently to win him
over. It was repugnant to her, still it must be done even yet. She
mastered herself for Ingolby's sake and changed her tactics.
"As you glory in what you have done, you won't mind being responsible
for all that's happened," she replied in a more friendly tone.
She made an impulsive gesture towards him.
"You have shown what power you have--isn't that enough?" she asked.
"You have made the crowd shout, 'Vive Marchand !' You can make everything
as peaceful as it is now upset. If you don't do so, there will be much
misery. If peace must be got by force, then the force of government will
get it in the end. You have the gift of getting hold of the worst men
here, and you have done it; but won't you now master them again in the
other way? You have money and brains; why not use them to become a
leader of those who will win at last, no matter what the game may be?"
He came close to her.
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