Graham hurried out. Deveril, his face pale and hard, his eyes burning as though the man were fever-ridden, came into the room. The door closed after him.
"Well?" snapped Standing.
"Not so well, thanks," retorted Deveril with an attempt at his characteristic inconsequential insolence. "Here's hoping the same to you ... damn you!"
"If you've got anything to say, get it done with," commanded Standing angrily.
"I'll say it," Deveril muttered. "But first I'll say this, though I fancy it goes without saying: there is no man on earth I hate as I hate you. As far as you and I are concerned I'd rather see you dead than any other sight I'll ever see. And now, in spite of all that, I've come to do you a good turn."
Standing scoffed at him, crying out: "I want none of your good turns; I am satisfied to have your hate."
Deveril, with eyes which puzzled Timber-Wolf, was staring at him curiously.
"Tell me, Bruce Standing," he demanded, "do you love her?"
"Love her?" cried Standing. "Rather I hate the ground she walks on! She is your kind, Baby Devil; not mine." And he laughed his scorn of her. But now there was no chiming of golden bells in that great volume of laughter but rather a sinister ring like the angry clash of iron. All the while Babe Deveril looked him straight in the eye ... and understood!
"For once you lie! You love her and what is more ... and worse!... she loves you! And that is why...."