THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
intend that I should go that way—be your kind."
"You will be before you leave this house," he replied, moodily.
"I can always kill myself."
"How?"
She smiled. He did not like that smile. He was a little afraid of her.
"You have only to put your hand on me to test my earnestness."
"You kept the pearls," he said, a queer look in his eyes.
"So I did. I took them in payment for that smile of yours. Oh, I offer no excuses for what I have done. It was all cold-blooded. Twenty times I was on the point of sending back those pearls. Do you think my conscience never bothered me?"
"Did it ever occur to you that I could have had you arrested for theft? You took something of which, at that time, you had no right."
"Yes; it occurred to me that morning in Venice. You were trying to separate us. Perhaps that was your tale to the carabinieri."
"Ah! our red-headed friend? Where is he?"
"He'll find me; never doubt that."
"Will he? Will he want to find you? Men are not friendly for nothing."
"His kind are."
"I'll break you, Ruth. I haven't been called a hell-rake for nothing. I'll break you. I've all the time in the world. You'll come to me; wait and see. And I wouldn't put any stake on that Irish friend.
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