There was that in the girl's white, rigid face that frightened the strong man. He recoiled and looked at the little flashing serpent with horror.
"I have listened to you, Doctor Guy Oleander," said Mollie Dane, slowly, solemnly; "now listen to me. All you say may be true, but yours I never will be—never, never, never! Before you can lay one finger on me this knife can reach my heart or yours. I don't much care which, but yours if I can. If I am your wife, as you say, the sooner I am dead the better."
"Mollie, for Heaven's sake—"
But Mollie, like a tragedy queen, waved her hand and interrupted him:
"They say life is sweet—I suppose it is—but if I am your wife I have no desire to live, unless, indeed, to be revenged on you. Put a dose of arsenic in yonder coffee-cup and give me the draught. I will drink it."
Dr. Oleander grinned horribly a ghastly smile.
"I had much rather give you a love-philter, Mollie," he said, recovering from his first scare. "Unhappily, the age of love-philters seems to have passed. And now I will leave you for the present—time will work wonders, I think. I must go back to New York; no one must suspect I have left it for an hour. I will return in a day or two, and by that time I trust you will no longer be in such a reckless frame of mind. I don't want you to die by any means; you are a great deal too pretty and piquant, and I love you far too well. Good-bye, my spirited little wife, for a couple of days."
He bowed low and left the room, locking the door carefully. And when he was gone Mollie drooped at once, leaning against the mantel, pale and trembling, her hands over her face—alone with her despair.