She rose--Tiny rose also, and barked at her--followed her father to his
room and stood watching him as he took off his frock-coat--he had no
valet--and slowly put on a loose jacket.
"Well?" she said, at last.
He sank into a chair and looked up at her with a sardonic smile on his
face.
"Yes, I'm back," he said. "I hurried back because Sir Stephen is going
to sign the articles to-night, going to bring the thing to a
conclusion."
She nodded, her eyes fixed on his hawk-like ones with a calm but keen
watchfulness.
"And you? Have you--"
He leant forward, and held out one claw-like hand, open.
"Yes, I've got him fast and tight." His hand closed, and his eyes shot
a swift, lurid gleam from under their half-lowered lids. "I've got him
as in a vice; I've only to turn the screw and--I squeeze him as flat
and dry as a lemon." She drew a long breath of satisfaction, of relief.
"You are clever!" she said. "And in one fortnight."
He smiled grimly.
"Yes; it is sharp work; and it has taken some doing--and some money.
But I've worked it. Black Steve--I mean Sir Stephen Orme, the great Sir
Stephen--is under my thumb.
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