But he was not thinking either of dress or toilet. His mind was in an agony of excitement that precluded all thoughts about personal appearance. Despite the ringing in his brain, it was clear enough for him to recall the occurrences of the night. Too well did he remember to what he had committed himself.
His apprehensions were of a varied character. Maynard knew him of old; and was perhaps acquainted with his later, and less creditable, history. His character would be made known; and his grand scheme frustrated.
But this was nothing compared with the other matter upon his mind—the stain upon his cheek—that could only be wiped out at the risk of losing his life.
He shivered, as he went staggering around the room. His discomposure was too plain to escape the notice of his wife. In his troubled look she read some terrible tale.
“What is it, Dick?” she asked, laying her hand upon his shoulder. “There’s been something unpleasant. Tell me all about it.”
There was a touch of tenderness in the tone. Even the scarred heart of the “pretty horse-breaker” had still left in it some vestige of woman’s divine nature.
“You’ve had a quarrel with Maynard?” she continued. “Is that it?”
“Yes!” hoarsely responded the husband. “All sorts of a quarrel.”
“How did it arise?”
In speech not very coherent—for the alcoholic tremor was upon him—he answered the question, by giving an account of what had passed—not even concealing his own discreditable conduct in the affair.