"Quit your gas," cried Angus, in a threatening tone.
Leyburn turned with sudden ferocity. But before he could voice his exasperation Hendrie broke in.
"Easy," he cried. "Don't raise your voice here. There's a sick woman upstairs. A woman sick to death. And it's because of her you're here now."
Leyburn looked quickly up into the big man's face. It had changed, changed utterly. All the old calm had gone. Memory, memory inspired by thoughts of the desperate straits of the woman he loved, had left the millionaire's every nerve straining.
"Sick woman?" cried Leyburn. "What in hell have I to do with your sick women folk?"
Hendrie's eyes had become bloodshot. The Scot watched him closely and with some apprehension.
"I'll tell you," cried the millionaire, his jaws shutting tight on his cigar. "The woman who's sick is—my wife."
Leyburn burst into a derisive laugh.
"Your wife?" he cried. "Your wife? What about Audie? What about the woman you left to starve—to die out on the Yukon trail?" He glanced round at Angus to witness the effect of his challenge. "His wife," he said deliberately addressing the Scot. "He left her, deserted her with her unborn child."
There are moments in life when a man is face to face with death without being aware of it. This was such a moment. Hendrie's hand was on a loaded revolver in his coat pocket, and a mad impulse urged him to silence that virulent, taunting tongue then and there. Fortunately Leyburn ceased speaking in time, and the impulse passed.