Her mood was different now. He had sunk into the great chair. She seated herself upon its arm; her head sunk to his; her cheek against his…. And again he kissed her, on the lips.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT.
THE BATTLE.
The car stopped before the porte-cochere. Blake alighted. He knew well the way. He did not ring; for the door was unlocked—ajar. Jaw close set— lips but a thin straight line, he made his way down the great, dark, silent hall. He had come to do that which it were hard to do. When one has been the friend of such a man as John Schuyler was—when one has felt toward a man as such a man as John Schuyler must be felt toward—when one has known that man to do the things that he has done—when one has seen the misery—the suffering unutterable that he has caused—the shame beyond depth, the grief beyond measurement—and when she upon whom has been heaped this shame and grief and misery and suffering unutterable is the woman one loves—then it becomes not a little thing to go to that man without murder in one's heart and vengeance in one's soul.
Blake knew where he was most likely to find the man that had been his friend. There he went, thrusting open the broad door. He paused upon the threshold….
The woman, lifted her head…. She moved away from Schuyler, arranging the dead black masses of her hair…. She laughed a little.
Schuyler turned. Eyes again leaden saw Blake.
"You!" he cried.
Blake said no word.