Rutlidge paused--angry with himself for so foolishly yielding to the impulse of his passion.
Myra Willard went toward him fearlessly--her fine eyes blazing with righteous indignation. "What are you trying to do, James Rutlidge?" she demanded--and her words were bold and clear.
The man was silent.
"You are evidently a worthy son of your father," the woman continued--every clear-cut word biting into his consciousness with stinging scorn. "He, in his day, did all he knew to turn this world into a hell for those who were unfortunate enough to please his vile fancy. You, I see, are following faithfully his footsteps. I know you, and the creed of your kind--as I knew your father before you. No girl of innocent beauty is safe from you. Your unclean mind is as incapable of believing in virtue, as you are helpless in the grip of your own insane lust."
The man was stung to fury by her cutting words. "Take your ugly face out of my sight," he said brutally.
Fearlessly, she drew a step nearer. "It is because I am a woman that I have this ugly face, James Rutlidge." She touched her disfigured cheek--"These scars are the marks of the beast that rules you, sir, body and soul. Leave this place, or, as there is a God, I'll tell a tale that will forbid you ever showing your own evil countenance in public, again."
Something in her eyes and in her manner, as she spoke, caused the man--beside himself with rage, as he was--to draw back. Some mysterious force that made itself felt in her bold words told him that hers was no idle threat. A moment they stood face to face, in the edge of the shadowy orange grove--the man of the world, prominent in circles of art and culture; and the woman whose natural loveliness was so distorted into a hideous mask of ugliness. With a short, derisive laugh, James Rutlidge turned and walked away.
Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange were returning from town. As they neared their home, they saw one of the Taine automobiles in front of the house. "Company," said the artist with a smile--thinking of his letter to the millionaire.
"It's Rutlidge," said the novelist--noting the absence of the chauffeur.