Suddenly he moved, as one who violently breaks free from some fettering spell. He uttered a bitter oath and tore the sheet of paper passionately to fragments. He flung them to the ground and trampled them underfoot.
"Ten million curses on her!" he raved. "She has been the bane of my life!"
Monck's eyes came out of the distance and surveyed him, coldly curious. "I thought so," he said, and in his voice was an odd inflection as of one who checks a laugh at an ill-timed jest.
Dacre stamped again like an infuriated bull. "If I had her here—I'd strangle her!" he swore. "That brother of yours is an artist. He has sketched her to the life—the she-devil!" His voice cracked and broke. He was breathing like a man in torture. He swayed as he stood.
And still Monck remained passive, grim and cold and unyielding. "How long is it since you married her?" he questioned at last.
"I tell you I never married her!" Desperately Dacre sought to recover lost ground, but he had slipped too far.
"You told me that lie before," Monck observed in his even judicial tones. "Is it—worth while?"
Dacre glared at him, but his glare was that of the hunted animal trapped and helpless. He was conquered, and he knew it.
Calmly Monck continued. "There is not much doubt that she holds proof of the marriage, and she will probably try to establish it as soon as she is free."
"She will never get anything more out of me," said Dacre. His voice was low and sullen. There was that in the other man's attitude that stilled his fury, rendering it futile, even in a fashion ridiculous.