“Don’t make matters worse by abusing me—it will not serve any purpose. It is necessary, for both of our sakes, that we should be friends,” she observed, in a low tone.
“Friends!” he exclaimed. “Never again will I consent to even hold discourse with you—never again will I hold out the hand of friendship to a cold, cruel, heartless assassin. Get thee hence! I will not have anything further to say to you.”
He turned and was about to take his departure.
“Oh,” said she, “it is thus you treat me. Stay a moment, if you please. Possibly you are about to denounce me.”
“And if I am it is no more than you deserve.”
“We will not argue that question. Do so if you please; but, hark ye, Mr. Thomas Gatliffe, a word in your ear. If you accuse me of committing this atrocious crime, as you term it, I must tell you frankly, I shall be constrained, in self-defence, to declare that you are the murderer of Alf Purvis. So it is, perhaps, just as well for you to understand what you have to expect.”
“Infamous, abandoned, and guilty woman!” cried Gatliffe, who was at this time driven to a state bordering on distraction. “I have no fear for myself. Think not to escape by such a miserable device. I both abhor and contemn you. Away, wretch! Away, murderess and adultress; I am far beyond the reach of your malice—go!”
“I shall go when I feel disposed to do so. I am proof against your taunts and abuse, and I should advise you to be a little more temperate in your language. You don’t know at present whom you have to deal with.”
“I say, go. I will have nothing more to say to one who is so vile.”
“Very well, sir, as you please. We are to part in anger, it would seem. The fault is not mine.”