He strode from the room as he spoke, his face and eyes aflame, and stalked straight to the sleeping-room of Mme. Blanche. One loud rap; then, before the attendant could open it he had flung it wide, and he was standing, stern as Rhadamauthus, above the cowering woman in the bed.
"Do you leave the room!" he exclaimed, turning savagely upon the girl; "and mind, no eavesdropping, if you have any regard for whole bones. Be off!"
The frightened girl scampered at once. Mr. Walraven closed the door, locked it, strode back, and stood glaring down upon his wife with folded arms and fiercely shining eyes.
"Well, madame?"
"Spare me, Carl." She held up her arms in dire affright. "Forgive me, my husband."
"Never!" thundered Carl Walraven—"never! you base, plotting Jezebel! The fate you allotted to Mollie Dane shall fall upon yourself. You shall quit this house before the week ends, never to return to it more."
"Carl! Husband—"
"Silence, madame! No husband of yours, either now or at any future time! This shall be our last interview. We part to-day to meet no more."
"Carl! Carl! for pity's sake, hear me."
"Not a word, not a syllable. All the excuses in the world would not excuse you. I never loved you—now I hate you. After this hour I never want to look upon your wicked white face again."