“Martin, what have I done?” she entreated.
Steadied by the wine, Martin Moreland found his voice.
“Done!” he panted. “What have you done? You’ve raised that hell-hound of a Jason in such a way that to-night makes the second time that he has attacked my son! My son!”
Martin Moreland’s clenched muscles shivered the fragile wine glass until when he opened his hand, the blood was dripping from it.
“Oh, Martin!” cried Marcia, “I did my best with the boy! Before God, I did! I never mentioned Junior’s name to him. I almost never speak to him at all, only about the work. The thing I did was to try to get him to study hard. He is a good boy, and I thought that was his only chance.”
“‘A good boy!’” raved Martin Moreland. “‘A good boy!’ He’s an insidious imp of the devil! To-night he tried to kill Junior, and it may be that by morning my boy will develop concussion of the brain. Concussion of the brain!” He shouted each word at the terrified Marcia, wildly gesticulating toward her with his dripping hand. “I thought that first lesson I gave him would be enough for him. To-night I’ll not leave him till he’s in the same shape my boy is.”
He turned and started toward the door. Marcia threw herself before him.
“Wait, Martin! Wait!” she begged. “Don’t go to him feeling that way, you might kill him!”
He thrust her roughly aside and the bleeding hand left its impress on the breast of a white dress that she was wearing for his allurement.
“I’ll take devilish good care that I don’t kill him,” he said, “because I cannot afford the scandal. Maybe you think I don’t know every hound of the pack that would be at my throat if they had the slightest encouragement. Maybe you think I don’t know the man who would lead in running me down, if I gave him the least hint as to where he could find an opening.”