"You are talking like a child," she cried recklessly. "You're talking out of a yellow strain that lies somewhere in your own wicked heart. How dare you say such things to us—to me? It's you—you who've laid poor Monica on her bed of sickness. You, with your cruel wickedness. Your vile suspicions. It is you, alone, who's responsible, and you know it.
"Say, Mr. Hendrie," she went on, her tone changing from passionate anger to one of taunting mockery. "You're a great man. There's no one can beat you when they get up against you. That's why you can stand there bullying and accusing us. You think to crush us right into the dust, like—like slimy reptiles. Oh, you're a great man. You're so strong."
Then, in a flash, her mockery was merged into a fierce challenge, the more strong for her very youth and girlishness.
"Prove it! Prove it!" she cried. "Prove your power against the fate barring your way. Don't stand there accusing folks who're right here to help you all they know. Save your Monica. There's time—yes, I tell you there's time—if you've the heart and courage to do it!"
She stood before him, her slim figure palpitating with the fierce emotion his madness had stirred in her. Her dark eyes flashed into his with all the courage of her young heart shining in their depths. And before it the man's insane frenzy died abruptly.
Angus, watching, beheld this girl's—this child's—victory. His cool Scotch brain marveled, and reluctantly admired, while he waited for the millionaire's reply.
It came after a long pause. It came in the hard, cold tones to which he was used, when stress of affairs demanded the concentrated force which lay behind his methods.
"Run away, girl," he cried harshly. "Run away, and leave me to think this thing out. Guess I'm sorry for what I said—— Now I just want to think."