He spoke without any beating about the bush,—“Ought you to have done this?” he said over his shoulder.
She fiddled with her gloves.—“To have done what?” she asked nervously.
“To have come here,” came in muffled tones back. It was evident that he was having to hold himself in.
Then suddenly he wheeled round. This time there was no doubt about it—it was a glare, and a resolute one.
But he had not been able to think of any new line. It was the one he had used before. He made it a little more menacing, that was all.
“I’m only flesh and blood—,” he said quickly, his hands ever so slightly clenching and unclenching and his throat apparently swallowing something.
Her heart was beating quickly enough now.—“But—but—,” she stammered,—“if you only mean my coming here—I’ve been here lots of times before——”
He wasted few words on that.
“Not since——” he rapped out. He was surveying her sternly now.
“But—but—,” she faltered again, “—it’s only me, Edgar—I am connected with the paper, you know—that is to say my husband is——”