Carnaby took a step; Redgrave laid an arresting hand upon him. There needed but this touch. In frenzied wrath, yet with the precision of trained muscle, Hugh struck out; and Redgrave went down before him—thudding upon the door of the veranda like one who falls dead.
CHAPTER 13
He forced the window; he rushed into the room, and there before him, pallid, trembling, agonising, stood Alma Rolfe.
'You?'
She panted incoherent phrases. She was here to speak with Mr. Redgrave on business—about her concert tomorrow. She had not entered the house until this moment. She had met Mr. Redgrave in the garden——
'What is that to me?' broke in Hugh, staring wildly, his fist still clenched. 'I am not your husband.'
'Mr. Carnaby, you will believe me? I came for a minute or two—to speak about——'
'It's nothing to me, Mrs. Rolfe,' he again interrupted her, in a hoarse, faint voice. 'What have I done?' He looked to the window, whence came no sound. 'Have I gone mad? By God, I almost fear it!'
'You believe me, Mr. Carnaby?' She moved to him and seized his hand. 'You know me too well—you know I couldn't—say you believe me! Say one kind, friendly word!'