“You know I love you, and I know you love me.”
“It is not true, sir. Let me go!”
“It is true, or you would have screamed the house down.”
“If I do not scream for help, it is because I would not alarm your uncle. I tell you he is dying.”
“Gammon, Gertie! The old tyrant—he is too tough. No such luck for us. There, don’t struggle any more. You are going to be my darling little wife.”
“Mr Saul. Pray, pray let me go.”
“Directly you have given me your word, Gertie. There, it is your fault that I was so rough. You do love me?”
“I hate you, sir, with all my heart, and you force me to say it. This is a cruel outrage. What have I done that you should dare to treat me so? Is there no one to help me? Bruno! Bruno!”
There was a short yelp, a sound as of a dog leaping to the floor, the rattle of nails in the hall, and a plump up against the door, accompanied by an impatient bark.
Saul Harrington, a good-looking man of five-and-thirty, started, and involuntarily loosed his hold of his captive, just as there was a sharp peal of a bell, and the slight, dark-eyed, trembling girl he had held in his arms slipped away, darted to the door of the sombre-looking dining-room, threw it open, and ran out, just as a great black Gordon-setter bounded in, set up the frill of hair about his neck, and uttered a low fierce growl, as he stood glaring at the occupant of the room.