“Margaret,” he said, “you have heard your precious husband’s views with regard to you. What do you say?”
She looked from one to the other—no one knows what tumultuous thoughts coursed through her brain in that trying moment—and she answered:
“I am his true and faithful wife, Robert. I have never been otherwise in word or deed.”
Capella started, as well he might, when he heard the Christian name of the man who was treating him with such quiet scorn.
“So,” he laughed maliciously, “I have again been fooled. You are not David, but—”
Frazer strode towards him, and the words died away on his lips.
“Listen, you blackguard!” he hissed. “Were it not for the presence of your wife I would choke the miserable life out of you. Go! We have done with you! You have unmasked your real character, and I cannot believe that a spark of affection can remain in your wife’s heart for you after your ignoble conduct. Go, I tell you! Do your worst. Spit your venom elsewhere than in this hotel. But first let me warn you. If you dare to approach Miss Layton, I cannot promise that my cousin David will treat you as tenderly as I propose to do. He will probably thrash you until you are unconscious. I simply place you outside this room.”
He grabbed the Italian by the breast with his right hand, lifted him high in the air, gathered the papers from the table in his left hand, and carried his kicking, cursing, but helpless adversary to the door.
Then he set him down again, opened the door, and remembering Brett’s advice, assisted him outside, flinging the documents after him and closing the door.
With impotent rage in his heart, Capella rushed from the hotel and caught the last train to the south. He had not been in Whitby two hours, but he was now embarked upon his vengeful mission, and bitterly resolved to push it to the uttermost extremity.