“You mean that her fate is to be in your hands?”
“Yes, exactly; and that it may do so most completely and satisfactorily, I think I will take charge of those interesting papers which you referred to, my dear Jeffrey.”
Jeffrey’s hand flew to his breast.
“The papers!” he articulated, hoarsely.
Spenser Churchill nodded.
“Yes. Don’t say you will not, my dear fellow, because if you do you will compel me to go straight to the marquis—who is at Barton Towers, by the way——”
“Barton Towers—the marquis—Doris!” muttered Jeffrey wildly and with a vacant stare.
“Yes, Doris, who will not be your Doris any longer, but will have to remain with her father, the marquis, whether she likes it or not——”
He had gone too far. With a spring, the tortured man was upon him, the long, thin fingers fastened tightly in the soft, white throat, the gaunt face was close upon the smooth, false one.
Spenser Churchill reeled, and went down on one knee.