“What does this mean?” asked the intruder, fiercely, ignoring the little one. “Evelyn!” The summons was uttered with outraged but confident authority.
She shrank back, covering her face.
“No!” She spoke as to herself. “No!—It can’t be! He’s dead—he’s dead!”
Satterthwaite intervened, his jaw setting hard, the level tone of his voice evidently sternly controlled.
“May I ask who you are?” he enquired, coldly.
The stranger faced him. Anger met anger in their eyes.
“Certainly. I am Harry Tremaine. And perhaps you will be good enough to tell me who the devil you are—and what you are doing with my wife in my flat?” The man’s voice trembled with fury. His face worked with passion. He took a step toward the young woman.
She drew quickly away from him, sheltered herself behind her companion, whence she stared at him with fascinated eyes.
“My name is Satterthwaite—and I am dining with my wife!”
“Your—wife——!” He repeated the words slowly as though scarcely crediting such audacious impudence of assertion. Then he laughed in harsh mockery. “Don’t talk nonsense!” He looked down at the child at Satterthwaite’s side. “Dorothy!—come here!”