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So courteous was the tone that she almost gasped her astonishment. She sank into a chair, and made a desperate effort to regain her self-control.

“You are very kind, monsieur,” she said, not very steadily. “No doubt I shall become accustomed to it.”

“I do not think you are quite fit for this,” he said gravely.

She looked up at him with more confidence.

“I am really stronger than you think,” she said. “And I wanted to speak to you on the subject of our destination.”

She fancied that he stiffened a little at the words, but he merely said:

“Well, mademoiselle?”

“Will you not sit down,” she said, “and tell me where the yacht is going?”

He sat down on the edge of the table. There was undeniable restlessness in his attitude.

“We are running due west at the present moment,” he said.

“With what object?” she asked.

“With no object, mademoiselle,” he rejoined, “except to keep out of reach of our enemies.”

“You have left Maritas for good?” she asked.

He uttered a short laugh.

“Certainly. I have nothing to go back for.”

“And you are indifferent,” she questioned, with slight hesitation, “as to the direction you take?”

“No, I am not indifferent,” he answered curtly.

She was silent. His manner puzzled her, made her afraid in spite of herself.

There followed a short pause, then he turned slightly and looked at her.

“Have you any particular wishes upon the subject?” he asked.

“Yes, monsieur.”

Her reply was very low.

“Let me hear them,” said Pierre.

“I should like,” she said slowly, “if it be possible, to go to England. I have relations there who might help me.”

“Help you, mademoiselle?”

His tone sounded harsh.

“To earn my living,” she answered simply.

His brows met suddenly.

“It is a far cry to England,” he observed.

“I know it,” she said. “I am counting upon your kindness.”

“I see,” said Pierre. “I am to take you there, and–leave you. Is that it?”

She bent her head.

“If you will, monsieur.”

“And if I will not?” he said.

She was silent.

He stood up abruptly, and walked to the farther end of the saloon. When he came back his face was set and grim. He halted in front of her.

“I am to do this thing for nothing?” he said. And it seemed to her that, though uttered quietly, his words came through clenched teeth.

Again wild panic was at her heart, but with all her strength she held it back.

“You offered to serve me, monsieur,” she reminded him.

“Even a servant expects to be paid,” he rejoined curtly.

“But I have nothing to offer you,” she said.

She saw the grey eyes glitter as steel in sudden sunshine. Their brightness was intolerable. She turned her own away.

“Does it not occur to you, Mademoiselle Stephanie,” he said, “that your life is more my property than your own at the present moment? Have I no claim to be consulted as to its disposal?”

“None, monsieur,” she made answer quickly. “None whatever.”

“And yet,” he said, “you asked me to save you when–had you preferred it–I would have died with you.”

She was silent, remembering with bitterness her wild cry for deliverance.

He waited a little. Then:

“You may have nothing to offer me, Mademoiselle Stephanie,” he said, “but, by heaven, you shall take nothing away.”

She heard a deep menace in his voice that was like the growl of an angry beast. She shuddered inwardly as she listened, but outwardly she remained calm. She even, after a few moments, mustered strength to rise and face him.

“What is it that you want of me, Monsieur Dumaresq?” she asked. “How can I purchase your services?”

He flung back his head abruptly. She thought that he was going to utter his scoffing laugh. But it did not come. Instead, he looked at her, looked at her long and piercingly, while she stood erect and waited.

At last: “The price for my services,” he said deliberately, “is that you marry me as soon as we reach England.”

“Marry you!” In spite of her utmost resolution she started, and slightly shrank. “You still desire that?”