Standish gnashed his teeth as he thought of her joy over her escape, for he knew well how she had secretly shrunk from him, though out of her wounded pride she had promised him her hand.
He guessed well that all was explained between her and Hawthorne now, and that they were already betrothed lovers.
If hate could have killed this pair in their exquisite happiness, then Clifford Standish would have sent a bolt of it to strike both of them dead.
In his jealous fury he raged and swore almost constantly. The little room he occupied became stifling with the fumes of wine and tobacco that he used to solace him in his terrible defeat.
But he was careful not to drink too much. He did not wish to stupefy his brain.
He wished to keep it clear that he might plot new deviltry.
Almost any man in his place would have given up the game after being so signally worsted by fate.
Not so with Clifford Standish. The stroke of adversity only roused in him a devilish obstinacy, a determination to rule or ruin.
Hate for Harry Hawthorne, and a mad passion for Geraldine Harding, drove him on to new wickedness.
He spent a good part of the day in seclusion, laying his wicked plans, like a crafty spider weaving his web; then, disguising himself with a wig, beard, glasses, and cosmetics, dressed himself in a cheap new suit, and sallied forth to victory. No look of Clifford Standish remained except the stately walk, and even this he could change at will.