The second time he turned the sound of a quick, elastic step caught his ear. He peered around the corner, and instantly a lurid light began to blaze in his eyes. The man he hated, the rival who had come between him and the—to him—one woman in the world, was approaching him, and evidently in search of some one.
Philip Wentworth stood still, concealed from the other's view by the heavy foliage beside him, and involuntarily reaching out his hand, grasped the stem of a plant that was growing in a pot, and lifted it from its place.
Clifford, who was seeking Mollie, came rapidly on, rounded the corner, and almost ran upon Philip. He pulled himself up short, and, after a swift glance around, he observed in an easy tone, as he courteously inclined his head to his former classmate:
"Ah, Wentworth, pardon me! I should have moderated my movements somewhat before turning this corner."
He was about to pass on, when Philip hoarsely exclaimed while he faced him:
"Hold! What is this I hear? I am told that you are going to marry Mollie Heatherford. Is it true?"
Clifford drew himself up slightly before replying.
"It is true, Mr. Wentworth; I am going to marry Miss Heatherford," he coldly replied, but with significant emphasis.
"Curse you!" fairly hissed Wentworth, while his grip tightened on the stem of the plant. "So that has been your game, has it? You have deliberately set yourself to cut me out. I told you four years ago that she was my promised wife; we had been pledged to each other from childhood, and heavens! do you think I am going to tamely submit to being robbed by a low-born pauper like you? Do you imagine that I'm going to let you marry her? Never, so help me!"
His right hand swung out with tremendous force, lifting the flower-pot above his head and aiming it directly at Clifford's face.