“It was made in Vienna,” interrupted Frederic, not without a strange thrill of satisfaction in his soul, “and before you were married, I'd say. On the back of it is written 'To my own sweetheart,' in Hungarian, Yvonne says. There! Look at her. She was like that when you married her. How adorable she must have been. 'To my own sweetheart'! O—ho!”
A hoarse cry of rage and pain burst from Brood's lips. The world grew red before his eyes.
“'To my own sweetheart'!” he cried out. He sprang forward and struck the photograph from Frederic's hand. It fell to the floor at his feet. Before the young man could recover from his surprise, Brood's foot was upon the bit of cardboard. “Don't raise your hand to me! Don't you dare to strike me! Now I shall tell you who that sweetheart was!”
Half an hour later James Brood descended the stairs alone. He went straight to the library, where he knew that he could find Yvonne. Ranjab, standing in the hall, peered into his white, drawn face as he passed, and started forward as if to speak to him. But Brood did not see him. He did not lift his gaze from the floor. The Hindu went swiftly up the stairs, a deep dread in his soul.
The shades were down. Brood stopped inside the door and looked dully about the library. He was on the point of retiring when Yvonne spoke to him out of the shadowy corner beyond the fireplace.
“Close the door,” she said huskily. Then she emerged slowly, almost like a spectre, from the dark background formed by the huge mahogany bookcases that lined the walls from floor to ceiling. “You were a long time up there,” she went on.
“Why is it so dark in here, Yvonne?” he asked lifelessly.
“So that it would not be possible for me to see the shame in your eyes, James.”
He leaned heavily against the long table. She came up and stood across the table from him, and he felt that her eyes were searching his very soul.
“I have hurt him beyond all chance of recovery,” he said hoarsely.