"It is false, Jack! I swear to you that I know nothing of it—"
"Perjurer!" he snarled.
His face was like a madman's as he caught her arm in a cruel grip. She cowered before him, dropping to her knees. She was pale with fear.
"Go, or I will kill you!" he cried, disregarding her protestations of innocence. "I can't trust myself! Out of my sight—let me never see you or hear of you again. I will give you money to leave London—to return to Paris. Nevill will arrange it. Do you understand?"
He lifted her to her feet and pushed her from him. She staggered against an easel on which was a completed picture in oils, and it fell with a crash. Jack trampled over it ruthlessly, driving his feet through the canvas.
"Go!" he cried.
And Diane, trembling with terror, went swiftly out into the black and rainy night.
An hour later, when Victor Nevill came to say that his search had been fruitless, he found Jack stretched full length on the couch, with his face buried in a soft cushion.