He stepped to one side, but Lord James again interfered. "No, Tom, not till you've told her! You shall not go!"
The Englishman stood resolute. Blake shook his head slowly, and spoke in a tone of keen regret: "Sorry, Jimmy; but if you will have it!"
His bandaged right fist drove out and struck squarely on the point of his friend's jaw. His nerves of sensation were so blunted by the liquor he had drunk that he struck far harder than he intended. Lord James dropped without a groan, and lay stunned. Blake stared down at him, and then slowly swung around to look at Genevieve.
She had risen and stood with her hands clutching the edge of the table.
Her face was distorted with horror and loathing.
"You coward!—you murderer!" she gasped.
"Yes, that's it," he assented—"brute, drunkard, coward, murderer—all go together. You're right to hate me! But you can't hate me half as much as I hate myself. That's hell all right—to hate yourself."
Suddenly he flung out his arms toward her and his voice softened to passionate tenderness. "God! but it's worth the price!—to save you, Jenny! I'd do it all over again, a thousand times, to make you happy, little girl!"
She shrank back and flung up her arm in a gesture of bewilderment, which he mistook for fear.
"Don't be afraid," he reassured. "I'm going."
He turned hastily, stooped to feel the heart of the unconscious man, and rose to swing across to the cardroom door. He passed out swiftly and closed the door behind him, without pausing for a backward glance.