Barely an hour had passed since the tramp of the horses of the departing Vigilantes had died away into the silence of the windless night, when another knock summoned Barbara to the front door.
"I knew you would come back," she said, as the big, powerful form of Colonel Jeff towered upon the threshold, tall and dark against the background of the darkness.
"You knew me well enough for that?" he rejoined, grimly.
She closed the door, and turned towards the parlour.
"In here," she said, quietly.
He looked at her with a kind of fierce astonishment. Into his dark eyes, that seemed to burn black with smouldering fury, there leapt a flash of reluctant admiration, that shook and thrilled him with a passion more of bitter wrath than of love. Instead of being crushed with shame and humiliation, drooping in fear and beseeching, this woman faced him like a queen.
"It is not with you that I have come to speak," he said, his deep voice a trifle huskier than usual. "I have saved you from open shame and public scandal. That's enough between you and me. I've nothing more to do with you, but I've an account to settle with your lover. I deal with him first, and alone. Where is he?"
"Wait," she said, as he made a movement to turn to the door. "He is no lover of mine."
"You will tell me, I suppose," he retorted, "that he was hidden there"—he ground his teeth upon the word as if he would crush it—"without your knowledge and consent?"
"I shall not tell you that."