The
whole place was in darkness but she turned on the electric light.
The cloak slipped from her shoulders. He took her hands and
looked at her.
"Jerry," she whispered, "you mustn't look at me like that. You
terrify me! Let me go!"
She wrenched herself free with an effort. She stepped back to
the corner of the room, as far as she could get from him. Her
heart was beating fiercely. Somehow or other, neither of these
two young men, over whose lives she had certainly brought to bear
a very wonderful influence, had ever before stirred her pulses
like this. What was it, she wondered? What was the meaning of
it? Why didn't he speak? He did nothing but look, and there
were unutterable things in his eyes. Was he angry with her
because she had married Wenham, or was he blaming her because
Wenham had gone? There was passion in his face, but such
passion! Desire, perhaps, but what else? She caught up a
telegram which lay upon her writing desk, and tore it open. It
was an escape for a moment. She read the words, stared, and read
them aloud incredulously. It was from her father.
"Jerry Gardner sailed for New York to-day."
She looked up at the man, and as she looked her face grew gray
and the thin sheet went quivering from her lifeless fingers to
the floor. Then he began to laugh, and she knew.
"Wenham!" she shrieked. "Wenham!"
There was murder in his face, murder almost in his laugh.
"Your loving husband!" he answered.
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