The light from the other room streamed in past him, shining full upon Martha, who stood, her hands on her hips, looking at the man.
Carrington was disconcerted by the presence of Martha when he had expected to see Marion. He stepped back, cursing.
Martha giggled softly.
“What you doin’ in my room, man; just when I’se goin’ to retiah? You git out o’ heah—quick! Yo’ heah me? Yo’ ain’t got no business bustin’ my door down!”
“Bah!” Carrington’s voice was malignant with baffled rage. With one step he was at Martha’s side, his hands on her throat, his muscles rigid and straining.
“Where’s Marion Harlan?” he demanded. “Tell me, you black devil, or I’ll choke hell out of you!”
Martha was not frightened; she giggled mockingly.
“That girl bust in heah a minute ago; then she bust out ag’in, runnin’ fit to kill herself. I reckon by this time she’s done throw herself off the butte—rather than have you git her!”
Carrington shoved Martha from him, so that she staggered and fell; and with a bound he was through the door that led into Martha’s room.
The negro woman did not move. She sat on the floor, a malicious grin on her face, listening to Carrington as he raged through the house.