“I deserve your rebuke, my lord,” said Glen; “but there comes a time to every man when he feels that he is in earnest. I am in earnest now.”
“If, sir, you are in earnest, why did you not make your advances like a gentleman?”
“One moment,” interposed Montaigne, who had now recovered himself, and stood with a smile upon his lip; “Lord Henry, I have been protector, tutor to these ladies from their childhood: I wish to say a few words to Captain Glen.”
Lord Henry bowed.
“Ruth, my child,” continued Montaigne, “leave Captain Glen for a few minutes.”
She shrank from him with such a look of revulsion that the rage in his breast flamed up again, and his craftiness for the moment failed.
“Now, sir,” said Glen sternly, and he looked menacingly at the man whom he blamed for the frustration of that night’s plans.
“You have cleverly hoodwinked the poor old fool amongst you,” whispered Montaigne, “but you have not blinded me. I have a prior claim to Miss Allerton’s hand, and I tell you this,” he cried, his rage making him tremble, “that after this night, if you so much as approach her again, I’ll expose Marie to her husband—I’ll tell him all.”
Glen glanced at Marie, who was talking in a low voice to Lord Henry, while, suffering now from the reaction, Ruth had sunk into a chair, trembling at what she had dared to do.
“You understand,” continued Montaigne, upon whose forehead the veins stood out. “That is my price for silence. Ruth is mine, or I drag that woman into the dust.”