Herriard thought of Alexia, then of the man before him, and his obvious intention to renew the old persecution. He rose and faced him.
“I do not understand you, Gastineau,” he said steadily. “You say you believe Countess Alexia guilty of Martindale’s death, yet it seems you want to marry her.”
Gastineau gave an ugly laugh, the scoffing, derisive note of intellectual evil. “Why not, my good Herriard? L’un n’empèche pas l’autre. The devil in a woman has an irresistible attraction for some men; men of a certain enterprise and courage. You remember the notorious Raymond case? I forget the average number of offers of marriage Mrs. Raymond received every day during the inquest and trial. The Countess is much more suited to be my wife than yours. Anyhow, I mean to claim her.”
Herriard flushed with indignation. Alexia the wife of this cold-blooded schemer, this incarnation of militant spite? The idea was hideous, unbearable.
“The Countess Alexia is engaged to me,” he said with restraint. “I do not mean to give her up to you or any man.”
Gastineau just let his eyes rest on Herriard’s face for an instant. Then, laughing, he turned and lighted another cigarette. “I am sorry to hear it for your own sake, my dear Geoffrey,” he replied, with the dangerous suavity of the feline’s velvet paw. “You mean to fight?”
Herriard laughed now, bitterly enough.
“You surely can scarcely expect me to give up the Countess at your cool request.”
Gastineau shrugged. “Perhaps not,” he returned slowly. “It may need more than a request. In the meantime—you are an ungrateful dog, Geoffrey Herriard. It only shows even I can be a fool sometimes; I actually thought I might expect gratitude from you.”
“I am grateful, very grateful to you,” Herriard returned sturdily. “I am fully sensible of all you have done for me and of the debt I owe you. But when you talk of my giving up to you the woman who is going to be my wife you are asking more than is reasonable, you are asking me to pay you by robbing another.”