Rose Mortimer; Or, The Ballet-Girl's Revenge — page 12: what you’re looking at

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4 ROSE MORTIMER ; OR, ee TTS snarl beneath the hair; but, in spite of these disagree- able attributes, when perfectly calm his form and features were those with which painters and sculptors of old embodied the heathen gods. ‘“‘ Now,” cried the stranger, as Rose closed the door behind her, “ are they finished ?”’ ‘Yes, count, yes,” muttered the elder man, at the same time fidgetting somewhat uneasily in his seat. ‘Well, out with them, then; waste.”’ The other rubbed his hands together, but made no movement, ‘<Do you hear?” — ‘Ves: I hear.” ‘By Jove, then, you had better obey.” ‘Yes, count, I hear, and will obey, but—” ‘¢ Speak, man, can’t you ?”’ ‘‘T have been considering, noble count, that the risk I run is very great, and—”’ ‘‘And, therefore, you are entitled to a greater recompense than that we agreed to originally 2” “¢ Precisely.”’ ‘‘You also think, I suppose, that I am in urgent want of those bits of paper ?”’ ‘‘T suppose so,’’ smirked the other. ‘‘ And that, consequently, I shall be quite prepared to pay a large sum to obtain them ?” Rose’s father seemed to be somewhat taken aback by the supreme coolness of his visitor, and his face lost something of his look of cunning pleasure, but he answered in the affirmative, though faintly. ‘‘Precisely. Now, from your own lips I learn you to be an extortionate rogue, but yet I am willing to deal fairly with you.”’ The countenance of Hugh Mortimer brightened up considerably, and he mechanically stretched forth his hand. “‘Not so fast, my good fellow. purse ?”’ He not only saw it, but almost devoured it with his eyes, as the man he addressed as count held up a knitted purse, through the meshes of which the quick sight of Rose’s father detected the glistening gold, at the same time that his ears drank in the sound of the chinking of the precious metal. “Good. It contains the exact amount we agreed beforehand was to be the price paid. Give me the paper and take it.”’ Hugh Mortimer shook his head. “You zrefuse ?”’ c¢ Yes.”’ “¢ How much more do you want?” -€* Double.” ) The count put his hand into his pocket, and Hugh Mortimer’s eyes brightened as he fancied another glittering purse would be produced. But he was wrong. He had reckoned without his host. Something glittering came from the pocket, but it was not a purse! With two rapid strides the stranger reached him, and ere he could utter a word or cry had twisted his fingers tightly in his neckcloth, and had hurled him to the floor. Half strangled, and totally incapable of uttering a sound, he lay prostrate, his visitor kneeling on his chest, holding the shining something, which was the barrel of a revolver, within a few inches of his fore- head. “‘ Now, Hugh Mortimer, we are upon a more equal footing. Who now is to dictate the terms ?”’ The prostrate man strove to call for help, but a tighter wrench at his neckerchief showed him the folly of the attempt. ** It is useless to struggle,’ said the count. ‘‘ Listen I’ve no time to Do you see this to me. I wish to converse with you, but I do not wish any witnesses called in ; so remember, though I loose my hold at your throat, I still keep a loaded revolver in my hand, and, if you utter one single word in a louder tone than that in which we were just now speaking, that word shall be your death-warrant. Remember too that, though I have no wish to com- mit murder, still to me my life is of greater value than yours. Get up.” He relaxed his hold, and Hugh Mortimer rose slowly and staggered to his feet. The first thing he saw was the barrel of the revolver pointed straight at his head. ‘‘ Now, Hugh Mortimer, bring me the paper.”’ ‘© And—and—the money ?”’ stammered the fright- ened man. ‘© You have forfeited all right to mention terms to me. Bring me the paper.”’ Slowly and reluctantly Mortimer took from a cup- board a roll of thin tissue paper, upon which several words had been engraved. The pieces of paper were not large, but at the top of each was engraved in Old English letters, orna- mented with many flourishes, ‘‘ Bank of England.” ‘‘ Good,” said the count, examining them; “ you were not taught engraving for nothing, I see.”’ So saying, he pocketed the roll and looked with a sardonic smile full into the face of the man who had handed them to him. ‘‘ Here,’ said he, with a short laugh; “here is half of the sum agreed upon. You have forfeited the other half by asking double; take it and be thankful. It isn’t everyone who would have given you that much.’’ ‘‘ Stay,”’ said Hugh Mortimer, his face white with passion. ‘‘ Listen to me; I can denounce you as an adventurer, a swindler, a——”’ ‘¢ Yes, my good fellow you can, but who will believe you? while, on the contrary, if I denounce you as a forger—transportation for life remember !” With a pleasant smile upon his face the count turned and left the miserable room, totally heedless of the look of baffled cunning and hate with which his tool regarded him. Just before he quitted the house he came again face to face with Rose, and now for the first time observed her personal appearance. For a moment they stood regarding each other in the passage, his face expressing admiration of her beauty, and hers astonishment at the presence of one so handsome and evidently patrician in this house of squalid poverty. She shrank back abashed by his lawless gaze, and he smiled at her alarm. It was a first meeting, and destined to result in misery: bitter, bitter misery to the poor unhappy girl! CHAPTER III. THE POOR GIRL’S PRAYER—THE REPULSE—THE MYSTERIES BEHIND THE CURTAIN—THE OOUNT AGAIN—A DEMON’S SMILE—TREACHERY—THE SPY—AN AWFUL NIGHT—A DEED OF BLOOD— THE STRUGGLE—A RUN FOR LIFE. WHEN Jack Halliday’s muscular arm had been called into requisition to protect Rose Mortimer from the insults of the ruffan who had dared to lay his hand upon her, she was returning to the dismal dreary house she called home, after having spent many hours waiting in vain to see Mr. Flathers, the well-known manager, in the hope of obtaining an en- gagement in the ballet for the forthcoming pantomime. Again and again had she been to that dark grimy | : ormmicbooks-com