In a flash she saw the change. She knew what he was thinking and pressed close to him, offering again her red lips.
“No!”
“Don't be a fool! You can save her, your goody-goody Penelope. It's the only way. I will leave her alone, except occasionally—I swear I will.”
“No! You're lying!” It seemed as if he repeated words spoken within him.
“Lying?” Her eyes half closed over slumberous fires. “Do you think Penelope can ever love you as I can—as your Fauvette can? Share her with me or—” she panted, “or you will lose her entirely. Penelope dies tomorrow night, you know that, unless—”
Frantically she tried to encircle him with her arms, but Herrick repulsed her. Some power beyond himself was strengthening him.
“Oh!” she cried in fury, “you don't deserve to have a beautiful woman. Very well! This is the end!” She darted to the bedroom door and unlocked it. “Come! I'll show you.”
Deathly pale, she led the way into the sitting-room and, going to Christopher's coat, she drew out a small flask.
“There! This is the danger she wrote about. I know. Spiritual danger! Ha! I'm going to open this. Yes, I am. You can't stop me.”
“Don't! It's death!”