His hands were so near the delicate white throat opposite him that Spenser Churchill drew his head back sharply, and turned pale.
“My dear Jeffrey!” he murmured soothingly. “Now, come, come. Now, really, you know! If any one were listening—which I am thankful, for your sake, is not the case—they would gather from your—er—really extravagant language that I had, like the bad man in a play, contrived the ruin of the usual virtuous young lady, whereas I must, in justice to myself, remind you, my dear Jeffrey, that the young lady in question was only guilty of the remarkably bad taste of jilting you for the Marquis of Stoyle, who, like an honorable gentleman, made her his lawful wife and sharer of his exalted rank.”
“Yes,” said Jeffrey, hoarsely. “Because, by no other means could he get her in his power! Made her his wife! Yes, that he might crush her the more easily! Enough, Spenser Churchill!”
“Pardon me! One word more! You appear to have forgotten that the lady, marchioness as she was, preferred to return to her first admirer——There, there!” he broke off, putting up his hand to ward off the threatened blow; “as you say, it is not worth talking about, and, as I say, it is as much wiser to forget. The poor lady is dead, and the child——”
“Is dead, too!” said Jeffrey.
“Is playing ‘Juliet’ at the Theatre Royal, Barton,” put in Spenser Churchill, smoothly. “Miss Doris Marlowe, otherwise Lady Mary, daughter of the Most Honorable the Marquis of Stoyle——”
Jeffrey staggered, and sank trembling on a fallen tree, great drops of sweat trickling down his white, wrinkled face.
Spenser Churchill took out a cigarette and lit it, smiling blandly down upon the stricken figure.
“Upon my word, my dear Jeffrey,” he said, pleasantly, “I am almost inclined to cry, ‘Fie, for shame!’ and to retort one of the ugly words which you so liberally applied to me. To afford shelter to the wife of the dear marquis is one thing, but to steal his child——”
“She—she died!” gasped Jeffrey, hoarsely.