For a few moments Underwood was too much overcome by emotion to speak. Alicia brushed by in haughty silence, not deigning to look at him. All he heard was the soft rustle of her clinging silk gown as it swept along the floor. She was incensed with him, of course, but she had come. That was all he asked. She had come in time to save him. He would talk to her and explain everything and she would understand. She would help him in this crisis as she had in the past. Their long friendship, all these years of intimacy, could not end like this. There was still hope for him. The situation was not as desperate as he feared. He might yet avert the shameful end of the suicide. Advancing toward her, he said in a hoarse whisper:
"Oh, this is good of you, you've come—this is the answer to my letter."
Alicia ignored his extended hand and took a seat. Then, turning on him, she exclaimed indignantly:
"The answer should be a horsewhip. How dare you send me such a message?" Drawing from her bag the letter received from him that evening, she demanded:
"What do you expect to gain by this threat?"
"Don't be angry, Alicia."
Underwood spoke soothingly, trying to conciliate her. Well he knew the seductive power of his voice. Often he had used it and not in vain, but to-night it fell on cold, indifferent ears.
"Don't call me by that name," she snapped.
Underwood made no answer. He turned slightly paler and, folding his arms, just looked at her, in silence. There was an awkward pause.
At last she said: