“He is jealous of you.”
“On whose account?”
“On mine.”
“Why should he be jealous of me? Is it not Barry Malleson who is contending with him for your favor?”
“I have told Barry that he must not think of me again.”
“And are you then so deeply in love with Lamar?” He said it regretfully, almost reproachfully. He could not reconcile himself to the thought of a union between such a man as Lamar and such a woman as this.
She drew herself up proudly. “No!” she cried. “I am not in love with him. I hate him! I despise him!”
He stared at her in astonishment. What new mystery was this? What additional catastrophe was impending? In what fresh web of calamity was he becoming entangled?
“But why,” he asked, “should Lamar be jealous of me? Why should he want to kill me? What have I done to call forth such a feeling on his part?”
“Nothing, Mr. Farrar; nothing; nothing! I have done it all.”