“Oh!” replied Rutley, with an imperturbable stare, “it was a love token from Mrs. John Thorpe.”
“You lie!” exclaimed Thorpe, the nails of his fingers imprinting deeply in the flesh of his tightly clenched fists, with the fierceness of the passion that had flamed within him.
“I do not lie!” Rutley calmly and slowly replied, as he looked steadily into Thorpe’s eyes.
“You confound my wife with Hazel,” hoarsely accused Thorpe.
“I reiterate,” responded Rutley, in the same even tone of voice, “the particular ring in question was a gift from Constance, John Thorpe’s wife, and not from Hazel.”
Gasping for breath, Thorpe turned his head aside and groaned as he remembered it was his gift to Constance before they were married.
Suddenly he gripped Rutley by the sleeve. They halted and confronted each other. And the dark formless shadow that had followed them also halted.
“From whom have you your information?” queried Thorpe, looking into Rutley’s eyes.
“I do not feel at liberty to mention, but it can be substantiated.”
“By whom?” demanded Thorpe.