“Do you think he will live long, Rosalind?”
“No, not very long, my own Adrian, for there are many easy ways to hurry an old man into his grave. But it is too soon to talk of that, now. Wait till I’m safely his wife and get his will made in my favor, then you and I can plot the finish, see?”
“Yes, I see, and I am with you to the end—and afterward. Ah, Rosalind, what a woman you are! If you did not love me I should be afraid of you!” Adrian Vance muttered huskily.
Rosalind gave one of her harsh, grating laughs, and said:
“Love can turn to hate.”
“You mean that I should beware of you. But I cannot, my queen, for I worship you. And—and—I shall be so jealous of that old man when he owns you that I shall be tempted to thrust a knife into his heart!”
“Pray don’t, Adrian! Poison in his winecup would be safer, you know. But I must leave you, for I have much to do. I am to be married to-morrow.”
“Heavens—to-morrow!” gasped her lover wildly, jealously.
She answered lightly:
“To-morrow, for the senator proposed it and insists upon it.”