“I fancy that this is a matter which won’t be discussed elsewhere,” he said.
Gallatin’s eyes sought Jane’s, who now stood in the doorway into the hall, one hand clutching the silken hangings.
“You can’t believe this, Jane? You have no right to. Your father has been told a sinful lie. It’s doing Nina a harm—a dreadful harm. Can’t you see?”
At the mention of Nina’s name Jane’s lips twisted scornfully and with a look of contempt she turned and was gone.
Gallatin took a few steps forward as though he would have followed her, but Loring’s bulky figure interposed.
“We’ve had enough of this, sir,” he growled. “Let’s have this scene over. We’re done with you. You’ve played h—— with your own life and you’ll go on doing it, but you won’t play it with me or with any of mine, by G——. I’ve got your measure, Mr. Gallatin, and if I find you interfering here again, I’ll take some other means that will be less pleasant. D’ye hear? I’ve heard the story they’re telling about you and my daughter up in the woods. It makes fine chatter for your magpies up and down the Avenue. D—— them! Thank God, my daughter is too clean for them or you to hurt. It was a great chance for you. You knew what you were about. You haven’t lived in New York all these years for nothing. You thought you could carry things through on your family name, but to make the matter sure you tried to compromise my daughter so that——”
Loring paused.
Gallatin had stood with head bowed before the door through which Jane had disappeared. His ears were deaf to Loring’s tirade; but as he realized the terms of the indictment, he raised his head, stepped suddenly forward, his fists clenched, his eyes blazing into those of the older man, scarcely a foot away. In Phil Gallatin’s expression was the dumb fury of an animal at bay, a wild light in his eyes that was a personal menace. Loring did not know fear, but there was something in the look of this young man who faced him which told him he had gone too far. Gallatin’s right arm moved upward, and then dropped at his side again.
“You—you’ve said enough, Mr. Loring,” he gasped, struggling for his breath. “Almost more than is good—for both—for either of us. You—you—you’re mistaken, sir.”
And then as though ashamed of his lack of control he turned aside, and took up his hat. Henry Loring strode to the wall and pressed his thumb to a bell.