Two regal strides, and she was standing above Adams, an incarnation of outraged womanhood, of implacable, devastating wrath.
"Who is your witness?"
For once his eyes had ceased to rove; they were held by Charlotte's—hypnotized by their compelling magnetism.
"Who is your witness?" she repeated, sternly—not to be denied.
"Don't—don't touch me," he hissed. "Keep away!"
"Touch you, you filthy thing? Ugh! Who is your witness?"
Of a sudden McCaleb sprang toward them.
"Here, none of that!" he cried through clenched teeth. Something flashed for an instant between the two men, and when he stepped back again he was holding a pistol in his hand and regarding the unfortunate Adams with anger and contempt.
"Who is your witness?" She was apparently oblivious of the little by-play.
There was no escaping it. In the end he stammered something, to Charlotte unintelligible, but McCaleb started and came on a step nearer.