"How can you sit here calmly reading," exclaims Dora vehemently, "when we are all so distressed in mind! But I forgot"--with a meaning glance--"you gain by his death; we do not."
"No, you lose," he retorts coolly. "Though, after all, even had things been different, I can't say I think you had much chance at any time."
He smiles insolently at her as he says this. But she pays no heed either to his words or his smile. Her whole soul seems wrapped in one thought, and at last she gives expression to it.
"What have you done with him?" she breaks forth, advancing toward him, as though to compel him to give her an answer to the question that has been torturing her for days past.
"With whom?" he asks coldly. Yet there is a forbidding gleam in his eyes that should have warned her to forbear.
"With Sir Adrian--with your rival, with the man you hate," she cries, her breath coming in little irrepressible gasps. "Dynecourt, I adjure you to speak the truth, and say what has become of him."
"You rave," he says calmly, lifting his eyebrows just a shade, as though in pity for her foolish excitement. "I confess the man was no favorite of mine, and that I can not help being glad of this chance that has presented itself in his extraordinary disappearance of my inheriting his place and title; but really, my dear creature, I know as little of what has become of him, as--I presume--you do yourself."
"You lie!" cries Dora, losing all control over herself. "You have murdered him, to get him out of your path. His death lies at your door."
She points her finger at him as though in condemnation as she utters these words, but still he does not flinch.
"They will take you for a Bedlamite," he says, with a sneering laugh, "if you conduct yourself like this. Where are your proofs that I am the cold-blooded ruffian you think me?"
"I have none"--in a despairing tone. "But I shall make it the business of my life to find them."
"You had better devote your time to some other purpose," he exclaims savagely, laying his hand upon her wrist with an amount of force that leaves a red mark upon the delicate flesh. "Do you hear me? You must be mad to go on like this to me. I know nothing of Adrian, but I know a good deal of your designing conduct, and your wild jealousy of Florence Delmaine. All the world saw how devoted he was to her, and--mark what I say--there have been instances of a jealous woman killing the man she loved, rather than see him in the arms of another."