Marion, young, slight, girlish in her trailing white robe; the other voluptuous, sensual, even coarse, in her negligé of flaming scarlet. It was a spectacle of virtue confronted by vice—of innocence menaced by wanton evil.
When Marion spoke again her voice vibrated strangely and she was fingering the little revolver nervously.
“I hope and believe your friends are more honorable than you are, mademoiselle!” she said, distinctly, “for I doubt if either of them would dare insult a respectable girl, while you have deliberately laid a trap for me—for Heaven alone knows what diabolical motive.”
For just a moment Carlotta looked ashamed, but she promptly recovered, and her frame fairly quivered with anger.
“Put that weapon down and dress yourself,” she said, with a sneer crossing her face. “Your dress is in the bed-room. I shall be glad to have you leave me.”
Marion turned toward the bed-room door, still grasping the pistol.
When she reached the doorway she turned and faced them, throwing her head back with a motion of superb defiance.
“If either of you dare to cross this threshold, look out!” she said briefly, but with unmistakable decision.
As she was hurrying into her street dress she heard the three whispering together. The next second there was a scream from the woman and a perfect volley of curses.
Clayton Graham had suddenly opened the door of the apartment and stood glaring at the trio. With a cry for help Marion bounded out and ran to him.