His face was not very distinct to her, for he was standing in a shadow cast by a near-by tree, and she could not see the bruises that marred the flesh, but it seemed to her that his face had never seemed so repulsive. And the significance of his grin made her gasp.
“That’s good. I’m glad he did go in; I did not come to see Parsons.”
She had meant to take him to task for what he had done to her uncle, but there was something in his voice that made thoughts of defending Parsons seem futile—a need gone in the necessity to conserve her voice and strength for an imminent crisis.
For Carrington’s voice, thick and vibrant, smote her with a presentiment of danger to herself. She looked sharply at him, saw that his face was red and bloated with passion and, taking a backward step, she said shortly:
“I must go in. I—I promised Martha——”
His voice interrupted her; she felt one of his hands on her arm, the fingers gripping it tightly.
“No, you don’t,” he said, hoarsely; “I came here to have a talk with you, and I mean to have it!”
“What do you mean?” she asked. She was rigid and erect, but she could not keep the quaver out of her voice.
“Playing the innocent, eh?” he mocked, his voice dry and light. “You’ve played innocent ever since I saw you the first time. It doesn’t go anymore. You’re going to face the music.” He thrust his face close to hers and the expression of his eyes thrilled her with horror.
“What do you suppose I brought you here for?” he demanded. “I’ll tell you. I bought the house for you. Parsons knows why—Dawes knows why—everybody knows. You ought to know—you shall know.” He laughed, sneeringly. “Westwood could tell you, or the woman who lived in the Huggins house before you came. Martha could tell you—she lived here——”