"—and as far as that girl you hate's concerned—Evie Soames—if the reason was good enough for suicide it was good enough for the other thing."
"What other thing?" Louie, in spite of herself, could not help asking.
"Oh—you know!"
"Do you know what you're saying?" This was an attempt to browbeat the other Louie.
"Oh, perfectly well! I know myself—you—us—Louie Causton—better than you do! And I know that lion better! Have you forgotten? Don't you remember what you thought of him, that if he set his mind on a thing he'd get it sooner or later, one way or another? Don't you remember what he said—'I wonder if anybody's ever beaten who doesn't deserve to be?' They are dangerous men who believe that! And the way's clear for him now, isn't it? Of course it is! Why, suppose you hear, first, that he's thrown Kitty Windus over; suppose you hear, next, that he's forging ahead in his business, whatever it is—you know he's as ambitious as Satan; then suppose you hear that he's engaged to Evie Soames—married to her. Suppose you hear all this?"
"Oh, anybody can make up an a priori tale like that!" the other scoffed.
"Perhaps they can; but what is a murder anyway? Whoever sees one committed? Don't they hang men on just such a priori tales, as you call it? Suppose that, rather than let him marry that girl——"
"Oh, stop, stop!" Louie positively shrieked within herself.
She was white. This scene always turned her white. She quickened her pace, but her ghastly pallor remained unchanged. A hundred times she had argued it all before, and she knew the conclusion that would presently come.
It came, the conclusion. That portion of herself that always seemed resolved to convict Mr. Jeffries of a hideous thing spoke, as it were, softly, seductively.