“Let go of me,” she whispered in a terrified voice.
But his grip tightened, and as she looked up into his mad eyes, a horror seized her.
“You want another murder on your name!” she cried.
He loosened his hold and staggered back against the wall.
“Oh, dear Heaven!” he said under his breath. “Dear Heaven—”
He put his hand to his forehead, staring at her in a wild manner.
“Ye are mad!” whispered Lady Dalrymple in awestruck tones.
“Maybe,” he answered hoarsely. “Maybe—keep away from me—take care.”
He strode away across the room and she heard the door bang heavily behind him. She stood still a moment, then, trembling, crossed to the desk. She thought of the contents of Tom Wharton’s letter, and smiled in mockery at herself. There was one could do what she could not for herself; she would write another letter in another spirit.
Scandal! What did she care for scandal now!