The nobleman looked at him, at the glowing, contemptuous eyes.
"Hesitate? Perhaps not! You love her yourself, and--"

John Steele stepped toward him. "Stop, or--I have once been almost on
the point of killing you to-night--don't--" he broke off. "The
condition? You consent or not?"

"And if I--? You would--?"

"Keep your cowardly secret? Yes!"

To this the other had replied; of necessity the scene had dragged along
a little farther; then John Steele found himself on the stairway, going
down.

It was over, this long, stubborn contest; he hardly heard or saw a cab
drive up and stop before the house as he went out to the street, was
scarcely conscious of some one leaving it, some one about to enter who
suddenly stopped at sight of him and exclaimed eagerly, warmly. He was
not surprised; with apathy he listened to the new-comer's words;
rambling, disconnected, about a letter that had intercepted him at
Brighton and brought him post-haste to London.

A letter? John Steele had entered the cab; he sank back; when had he
written a letter? Weeks ago; he looked at this face, familiar, far-off;
the fog was again rising around him. He could hardly see; he was glad he
did not have to stir; he seemed to breathe with difficulty.

"Where--are we going?"