There was a cold ring in Littimer's voice that told Henson of his determination to carry out his threat. The other troubles he might wriggle out of, but this one was terribly real. It was time to try conciliation.
"It will be a terrible scandal for the family, my lord," he whined.
Littimer rose to his feet. A sudden anger flared into his eyes. He was a smaller man than Henson, but the latter cowed before him.
"You dog!" he cried. "What greater scandal than that of the past few years? Does not all the world know that there is, or has been, some heavy cloud over the family honour? Lord and Lady Littimer have parted, and her ladyship has gone away. That is only part of what the gossips have said. And in these domestic differences it is always the woman who suffers. Everybody always says that the woman has done something wrong. For years my wife has been under this stigma. If she had chosen to keep before the world after she left me most people would have ignored her. And you talk to me of a family scandal!"
"You will only make bad worse, my lord."
"No," Littimer cried. "I am going to make bad infinitely better. We come together again, but we say nothing of the past. And the world sneers and says the past is ignored for politic considerations. And so the public is going to know the truth, you dog. The whole facts of the case have gone to my solicitor, and by this time to-morrow a warrant will be issued against you. And I shall stand in open court and tell the whole world my story."
"In fairness to Lady Littimer," said Enid, speaking for the first time, "you could do no less."
"You were always against me," Henson snarled
"Because I always knew you," said Enid. "And the more I knew of you the greater was my contempt. And you came here ever on the same errand—money, money, money. From first to last you have robbed my aunt of something like £70,000. And always by threats or the promise that you would some day restore the ring to the family."
"As to the ring," Henson protested, "I swear—"