"Aaron! Aaron! He's going to kill me!" screamed Cynthia.
Thought was not quicker than the leaping forward of Colonel Ashley.
Out from the shadows he sprang, to whirl back the man who, with blazing
eyes and murderous hate written on his face, confronted Cynthia
Ratchford.
"What—what's this?" snarled the man, struggling to retain his balance.
"What's this? Who the devil are you, to come between me and my—"
"Don't dare profane that name!" warned the woman. "I—I— Oh,
Aaron! where are you?"
It was very dark now, under the trees.
"Ha! So that's who he is! Your old lover, Grafton! Well, I'll soon finish him! I'll make him wish he hadn't come between us with his protecting ways, and his diamond cross that he goes so secretly to have mended. Bah! A pretty lover! Take that, you sneaking fool!"
There was a sliver of flame in the darkness, and mingled with the report came a cry of anguish and a woman's scream, as a heavy stick in the hands of Colonel Ashley broke the hand that held the revolver.
A little thud among the bushes told where the weapon had fallen, its bullet cutting the tree branches overhead.
"Oh—who—who are you?" gasped the woman, as the colonel stepped between her and the man he had maimed. "I thought Mr. Grafton was—"
"I think that is he coming now," said the old detective quietly, as the sound of some one running up the path was borne to their strained senses.