“He knew, Jack,” she whispered. “He’s known all along. That’s why he made me ask you here.”
Denver swore softly under his breath; as yet he had not realized the danger.
“Damn him!” he said, angrily. “This is beyond a joke. We’ve done absolutely nothing of which we need be ashamed. Why, I’ve never even kissed you, Hilda.” He went to the door and tugged at it; it refused to budge.
“Well, this settles it, my dear,” he went on. “He may have a weak heart or he may not—but I don’t stand for this form of humour. I shall tell your husband exactly what I think of him, and that you’re going to come away with me. And he can take what steps he damn well chooses.”
He lit a cigarette and began pacing up and down the little room with short, angry steps, while the girl, leaning against the desk, watched him with a strange look in her eyes.
“Jack, dear,” she said at length, “I don’t think you quite understand. This isn’t a joke.”
He stopped short in his tracks and stared at her.
“What do you mean?” he asked, in a low voice.
“This is dead earnest. He means to murder us.”
The colour slowly left his face.