“This ’ere is the very most rummiest start I ever come near,” he said to himself, as he rattled off. “I wonder whatever’s up?”
This scene passed in a moment. As the man was mounting his box, Lucia entered, with the same creeping, tottering, dragging step. In her hand was a tiny, silver-mounted revolver. Her brain had almost given way, and death, disgrace, misery seemed to point at her with gibbering, skeleton fingers. Her one dominant thought was that she must recover that fatal volume at all hazards. She advanced toward Frank Amberley with the aspect of a beautiful beast of prey.
His hands were empty; she glared about to see what he had done with his prize.
“Where is it?” she hoarsely demanded, speaking as if her throat were dry.
“In a place of safety.”
“Where is it, I say? What have you done with it?”
She suddenly noticed the open window, and ran to it. Then the truth flashed upon her.
“You have ruined me!” she screamed, rushing toward the young lawyer. “I have nothing but disgrace and despair to look forward to. But if I suffer, it matters not if it be for little or much, and I will have vengeance!”
The click of the lock of her pistol warned Frank of his imminent danger. He sprang upon her, and tried to disarm her. But her grip was tight, and her strength more than he had counted on, and a short, desperate struggle for life ensued.
As he succeeded in snatching the pistol, it went off. The report brought the servants rushing to the room. They found their mistress on her knees, her hair floating wildly about her, her face ashy white, her arms entwined about her visitor, who stood with the pistol in his hand, trying to disengage himself.