Defiance was his only weapon, and he hurled it with all his strength;
but the moment he had done so, he realized the hopelessness of the
venture. Monck made a single, swift movement, and in a moment the
moonlight glinted upon the polished muzzle of a Service revolver. He
spoke, briefly, with iron coldness.

"The choice is yours. Only--if you refuse to give her--the sanctuary of
widowhood--I will! After all it would be the safest way for all
concerned."

Dacre went back a pace. "Going to murder me, what?" he said.

Monck's teeth gleamed in a terrible smile. "You need not--refuse," he
said.

"True!" Dacre was looking him full in the eyes with more of curiosity
than apprehension. "And--as you have foreseen--I shall not refuse under
those circumstances. It would have saved time if you had put it in that
light before."

"It would. But I hoped you might have the decency to act
without--persuasion." Monck was speaking between his teeth, but the
revolver was concealed again in the folds of his garment. "You will
leave to-night--at once--without seeing her again. That is understood."

It was the end of the conflict. Dacre attempted no further resistance.
He was not the man to waste himself upon a cause that he realized to be
hopeless. Moreover, there was about Monck at that moment a force that
restrained him, compelled instinctive respect. Though he hated the man
for his mastery, he could not despise him. For he knew that what he had