“Oh, you know his name. Yes; Mr. Van Hupfeldt.”
David chuckled grimly.
“Why do you laugh?” she asked.
“But whatever is your motive?” he cried sharply.
“You are strange to venture to inquire into my motive,” she said, with downcast eyes. Then her lip trembled, and she added in a low voice: “My motive is known only to the dead.”
“Ah, don’t cry!” he almost shouted at her, with a sudden brand of red anger across his brow. “There’s no need for tears! It shan’t ever happen, this thing!”
“What do you mean?” she asked, glancing tremulously at him.
“What I say. This marriage can’t happen. I’ll see to that. But stop—perhaps I am talking too soon. ‘Let not him boast that putteth his armor on as he that taketh it off.’ Good-day, Miss Mordaunt. I shall not trouble you any more about the one hundred pounds. I will spend it out of my own pocket pocket—”
“Please stay!” she cried after him. “Everything that you say bewilders me! How am I to believe you honest when you say such things?”
“What things? Honest? You may believe me honest or not, just as you will. I told you before that I am not greatly concerned. If I bewilder you, you anger me.”