"I beg your pardon," he said again, and his eyelids quivered a little
as if under the pressure of some controlled emotion. "We shall not be
made prisoners. I know what I am saying. It is deliverance that I am
offering you. Of course you can refuse, and I shall still do my
utmost to save you. But the chances are not equal. I hope you will not
refuse."

The moderation of this speech calmed her somewhat. In her first wild
panic she had almost imagined that he could take her against her will.
She saw that she had been unreasonable, but she was too shaken to tell
him so. Moreover, there was still that about him, notwithstanding his
words, that made her afraid to yield a single inch of ground lest by
some hidden means he should sweep her altogether from her precarious
foothold. Even in the silence, she felt that he was doing battle with
her, and she did not dare to face him.

With a childish gesture of abandonment, she dropped into a chair and
laid her head upon her arms.

"Oh, please go away!" she besought him weakly. "I am so tired--so
tired."

But Ratcliffe did not move. He stood looking down at her, at the black
hair that clustered about her neck, at the bowed, despairing figure,
the piteous, clenched hands.

A little clock in the room began to strike in silvery tones, and he
glanced up. The next instant he bent and laid a bony hand upon her two
clasped ones.