“Wait!” he said, hoarsely. “Listen to me. I—I can bear with you—”
Varley laughed.
“Bear with me!”
“Yes. For you have loved her as I loved her until—until she was false to me.”
“False to you?” echoed Varley. “If she had been, it was no more than you deserved. But I will answer for her purity with my last breath. I know nothing of her story; I have never asked her, and she has never told me, but I would believe her word against all the dukes in Christendom. You married her for her money; you have broken her heart; you have followed her here to inflict further torture upon her. My lord duke, you have gone a step too far. You have to deal with me, Varley Howard, her guardian, the man who has loved her as a father, who will stand up for her truth and innocence against a world of d——d dukes!”
Trafford again made a gesture, half of entreaty, half of defiance.
Varley caught his breath.
“Ever since she came back to Three Star, I have longed to meet you. I have lain awake, tortured by the desire to grasp you by the throat and call you to account. I am not a religious man, but I have prayed, actually prayed for this hour. And it has come!”
Trafford stood erect and fearless, the blood surging in his face. The two men gazed at each other, watching each other as two wild animals might watch before the struggle of life and death.
Varley was the first to recover his composure.