“You brute!” he cried, “you might have killed her.”
Between her sobs, Vera, her head upon the shoulder of Vance, whispered a question. As quickly, under cover of muttered sympathy, Vance answered: “Gaylor. The Judge.”
Still slightly swaying, Vera stood upright. She passed her hand vaguely before her eyes. “Where am I?” she asked feebly. “Where am I?”
Gaylor shook his fist at the girl.
“You know where you are!” he thundered; “and you know where you’re going—you’re going to jail!”
In the hush that followed Vera drew herself to her full height. She regarded Gaylor wonderingly, haughtily, as though he were some drunken intruder from the street.
“Are you speaking to me?” she asked.
“Yes, to you,” shouted the lawyer. “You’re an imposter, and a swindler, and—and—”
Winthrop pushed between them.
“Yes, and she’s a woman,” he said briskly. “If you want a row, talk to the man.”