"I shall think you mad in another moment, if you don't explain yourself," Whitaker told him candidly.
Ember's smile flashed and vanished. "They were waiting for the sensation that presently came to them: the report of Drummond's death."
"What the devil—!"
"Patience!... It had been discounted: if something of the sort hadn't happened, New York would have gone to bed disappointed. The reason? This is the third time it has happened—the same thing, practically: Sara Law on the verge of leaving the stage to marry, a fatal accident intervening. Did Max by any chance mention the nickname New York has bestowed on Sara Law?"
"Nickname? No!"
"They call her 'The Destroying Angel.'"
"What damnable rot!"
"Yes; but what damnable coincidence. Three men loved her—and one by one they died. And now the fourth. Do you wonder...?"
"Oh, but—'The Destroying Angel'—!" Whitaker cried indignantly. "How can they blame her?"
"It isn't blame—it's superstition. Listen...."