"Mr. Standish:—You may call at eight o'clock this evening.
Geraldine Harding.
"Dec. 29th, 1894."
How the words glared up at him, for he knew the writing well, and a groan burst from his lips as he flung it from him, crying:
"Where is she? I must see her! I must have an explanation!"
"I cannot tell you where she is. She would not wish it. You may as well give up the game, Hawthorne, for I have won!"
The triumph in his voice was hateful.
Hawthorne did not speak for a moment, and his opponent continued:
"Let us understand each other. We have been rivals for Geraldine Harding's love, and she has coquetted with us both, promised her hand to both. Well, all is fair in love or war. My little scheme succeeded, and she is satisfied!"
"You have married her, Standish?"
"How could I when I have a wife living in New York, and Geraldine knows it? But I tell you she loves me and is satisfied. We stage people are not at all prudish, you know."
The next moment Hawthorne's strong fingers were about his throat.