At that moment Eugene Mallard, who had hurried down the path at the suggestion of Vivian Deane, arrived upon the scene.
Only the tall lilac bushes sheltered him from the two who stood by the brook-side. For a moment he was horrified at what he saw and heard. He stood fairly rooted to the spot. His first impulse was to dash in upon them, fling Arthur Hollis to the earth, and beat his very life out.
His next impulse was to rush to the house for his revolver, return with it, and shoot his false friend before his guilty wife's eyes.
He acted upon the latter impulse, turned on his heel, and a moment later, white as death, he dashed into the house and ran up a rear stair-way to his room.
He did not love the girl who bore his name, but she should learn, even if it were at the cost of a life, what it meant to drag his name, his honor, through the mire.
[CHAPTER XLI.]
Although scarcely five minutes had elapsed since Eugene Mallard dashed into the house in search of his revolver, when he returned to the brook-side neither his wife nor Arthur Hollis was to be seen.
His rage was so great that he could scarcely contain himself. In his present state of mind he did not dare return to his guests, lest his emotion should betray him.