“I don’t want his address—I don’t want it!”
Mr. Superbus did his bow and went out. Her face was the picture of woe.
“Bobbie, what am I to do? That’s the third time he’s called to-day.”
“Who is he?”
“The clergyman. Dempsi’s idea! He thinks our marriage is a matter of hours! It is so like Dempsi, so absurdly, so tragically mad; but he’d hardly been with me two minutes before he told me he was sending for the parson to ‘make us one’! And I know which one! I read the review of a book to-day by a man whose name I forget. It doesn’t matter. He says that there are conditions in which assassination is the purest and noblest expression of public sentiment. Will you get it for me?”
“But he couldn’t marry you in the evening,” persisted Bobbie. “It is against the law.”
She was darkly amused.
“Against the law! What is a little thing like that to Dempsi? He is the law!”
“It seems a simple matter to get him away.” Bobbie searched his mind for a solution. “Have you any plan?”
Had she any plan? Was there a moment of consciousness in the day that she did not form a new scheme to rid herself of her electric incubus?