The man flushed hotly, while anger for the moment rendered him speechless.
"Possibly you might be able to induce your—companion to surrender the document," the lady added, after a minute of awkward silence.
Gerald Goddard gnawed his under lip in impotent wrath at this sarcastic reference to the woman who had shared his life for so many years; while the wretched eavesdropper herself barely suppressed a moan of passionate anguish.
"You have very little idea of Anna's spirit, if you imagine that she would ever yield one jot to you," Mr. Goddard at length retorted, his face crimson with rage.
Isabel Stewart arose from her chair and stood calm and cold before him.
She gazed with a steady, searching look into his eyes, then remarked, with slow emphasis:
"She will never be asked to yield to me, and I am spared the necessity of suing to either of you, for—that all-important certificate of marriage is already in my possession."
As we know, Gerald Goddard had feared this; he had even suggested the possibility to Anna, on the night of the ball at Wyoming, when she told him of the disappearance of the paper.
Nevertheless, the announcement of the fact at this time came upon him like a thunderbolt, for which he was utterly unprepared.
"Zounds!" he cried, starting to his feet, as if electrified, "can you mean it? Then you stole it the night of the ball!"