At that moment Monica re-entered from the bedroom.
A sudden terror leaped into her eyes as she recognized the silver frame in his hand. One swift glance of his hot eyes left her terror apparent to him. He needed no more. A furious rage mounted to his brain. It was a rage of jealousy. The first passion of jealousy he had ever known, and he felt as though he were going mad.
But a powerful restraint, the habit of years, served him. With one jerk of his muscular fingers the back of the frame was torn out, and the photograph removed. Then the frame fell to the floor, and its glass was shattered.
"Who's picture is this?" he demanded.
Monica strove to steady her shaking limbs. She cleared her throat.
"Why—that's—that's the son of an old friend of mine," she cried desperately. "I've known him all his life."
The man deliberately tore the picture across. He tore it across again. Then he walked over to the stove. He opened it. One by one he dropped the fragments of Frank Burton's picture into the heart of the glowing coal. Then he reclosed the door.
The next moment Monica was in his arms, and his eyes were devouring her beautiful, frightened face.
"Guess you'll know him no more," he cried, with a laugh, which only seemed to accentuate the fury of his jealousy. "No more. There's just one man in this world for you now, and that man is——"
He broke off and released her. Then, with a sudden return to his normal manner, and all sign of his mad jealousy passed, he led her toward the door.