"I'll get that bracelet if I have to chop her arm off," Mallory vowed.
The sobs stopped short, as Marjorie looked up to ask: "Have you got your sword with you?"
"It's in my trunk," he said, "but I'll manage."
"Now you're speaking like a soldier," Marjorie exclaimed, "my brave, noble, beautiful, fearless husband. I'll tell you! That creature will pass through this car on her way to breakfast. You grab her and take the bracelet away from her."
"I grab her, eh?" he stammered, his heroism wavering a trifle.
"Yes, just grab her."
"Suppose she hasn't the bracelet on?" he mused.
"Grab her anyway," Marjorie answered, fiercely. "Besides, I've no doubt it's wished on." He said nothing. "You did wish it on, didn't you?"
"No, no—never—of course not—" he protested "If you'll only be calm. I'll get it if I have to throttle her."
Like a young Lady Macbeth, Marjorie gave him her utter approval in any atrocity, and they sat in ambush for their victim to pass into view.