Crang shrugged his shoulders.
“You can do as you like, but I don't imagine”—a snarl crept into his voice—“that it will give him any joy to witness the ceremony, or you to have him. Suit yourselves; but I won't answer for the consequences.”
“I'll go,” said Claire simply—and as Paul Veniza lifted himself up suddenly in protest, she forced him gently back upon the couch again. “It's better that way,” she said, and for a moment talked to him in low, earnest tones, then kissed him, and rose, and walked out from the room.
Crang, with a grunt of approval, started toward the telephone.
“Wait!” Paul Veniza had raised himself on his elbow.
Crang turned and faced the other with darkened face.
“It is not too late even now at the last moment!” Paul Veniza's face was drawn with agony. “I know you for what you are, and in the name of God I charge you not to do this thing. It is foul and loathsome, the basest passion—and whatever crimes lay at your door, even if murder be among them, no one of them is comparable with this, for you do more than take a human life, you desecrate a soul pure as the day God gave it life, and——”
The red surged into Crang's face, and changed to mottled purple.
“Damn you!” he flung out hoarsely. “Hold your cackling tongue! This is my wedding morning—understand?” He laughed out raucously. “My wedding morning—and I'm in a hurry!”
Paul Veniza raised himself a little higher. White his face was—white as death.