"Yes, he belongs to me," said a low, menacing voice in the door-way. "He belongs to me, Irene Brooke. Do not dare to take him from me!"
[CHAPTER VI.]
It was Bertha's voice. She had been to her room, to indulge in a fit of mad passion and jealousy, but had returned and stood listening at the door for some moments—long enough indeed to hear all that had been spoken since Irene had recovered consciousness. Mad with passion she stood before them.
"He is mine," she said again, hoarsely. "Woe be to you, Irene Brooke, if you take him from me!"
She looked like some mad creature with the loosened coils of her shining hair falling down like long black serpents over the corsage of her ruby satin robe, and her black eyes flashing forth jealousy and defiance. The jeweled serpents that wreathed her white arms seemed to dart menace from their gleaming emerald eyes as she shook her hand.
Slowly Guy Kenmore turned and looked at her, honest amazement stamped on his handsome features.
"Miss Brooke, your assertion is a most strange one," he said. "I cannot understand why you should wish to complicate this unhappy affair still further by such a palpable injustice. On what grounds do you base your claim?"
Her flashing eyes fell a moment before the proud wonder in his. Then she asked, with a heaving breast and in deep agitation:
"Do you deny that you have made love to me? That you came to Bay View to woo me?"