"You promise;" she arose from her chair and came close to Constance; "you promise," she said, slowly, "never, never to marry Francis Lamotte?"
"You promise never to marry Francis Lamotte?"
"I swear it."
A coarse laugh, a smothered oath; they both turn swiftly, and there, in the doorway, smelling of tobacco and brandy, and shaking with coarse laughter, is John Burrill, and beside him, with clenched hands, swollen temples, drawn, white lips, stands Francis Lamotte. Stands! No. He reels, he clings to the door-frame for support; his enemy is upon him.
Sybil draws herself erect; the red blood flames to her face; the fire darts from her eyes; she lifts one slender arm and points at the reeling figure; then there rings out a burst of mad, mocking laughter.
"Ha! ha! ha! Frank Lamotte, I have settled my account with you."