"You're forgetting something," he broke in, rallying his assurance with an effort. "You're forgetting that while you were conspiring to keep me here, your lover, Bruce Bayard,"—drawling the words—"was meeting you secretly. What do you think your law will say to that?"
"I'll trust to it, Ned," she answered, in splendid composure. "I will trust to other men to judge between us—"
"Then, I won't!" he screamed, stepping quickly around the table, grasping for her arm. She retreated quickly and he lunged for her again and again missed.
Then, with a choking oath, he threw the table aside and the lamp went crashing to the floor.
"Then, I won't, damn you! You're my wife, to do as I please with; the law gave you to me, and it hasn't taken you from me yet!"
He advanced menacingly toward her as she backed into a corner, paling with actual fear now; his elbows stuck stiffly out from his sides, his hands were clenched at his hips, face thrust forward, feet carrying him to her with slow uncertainty.
"Ned—" Her voice quavered. "Ned, what are you going to do?"
"Maybe I'll ... strangle you!" he said.
She looked quickly from side to side and one hand clutched at her breast convulsively, clutched the cloth ... and something that was resting within her waist. She started and with a quick movement unbuttoned the garment at her bosom, reached in and drew out an automatic pistol.
"Ned, don't force me!" she said, slowly, voice unsteady.