“Once more I order you to go before I—”
“In reality she was living with Mr. Hugh Alston as his wife—”
Philip Slotman laughed nervously.
“Liar!”
“I had to tell you in spite of yourself, and it is true. It is true. Ask Lady Linden of Cornbridge; she knows. She believes to this day that Joan Meredyth and Alston were married, and they never were. I have searched the registers at Marlbury and—”
“Will you go? You seem to have been hurt. You have probably carried this lying story elsewhere and have received what you merited. I hardly like to touch you now, but unless you go—”
“I am going.” Slotman moved stiffly towards the door. “Ask Lady Linden of Cornbridge. She believes to this day that Joan Meredyth is Hugh Alston’s wife.”
“By heavens! If you don’t go—”
Slotman glanced at him; he saw that he was over-stepping the danger-line. Yes, he must go, and quickly, so he went. But he had planted the venom; he had left it behind him. He had forced this man to hear, even though he would not listen.
“First blow,” Slotman thought, “the first blow at her! And I ain’t done yet! no, I ain’t done yet. I’ll make her writhe—”