The girl was ready to come. Who stopped her? Who turned her mind? Who was there but you—you—you?”
And again his passion overcame him, and he was within an ace of dashing his fist in my face.
My hands hung at my side, and I leaned easily against the wall.
“Thank God,” said I, “I believe I stopped her! I believe I turned her mind. I did my best, and except me, nobody was there.”
“You admit it?”
“I admit the crime you charged me with. Nothing more.”
“What have you done with her? Where is she now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ah!” he cried, in angry incredulity. “You don’t know, don’t you?”
“And if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“I’m sure of that,” he sneered. “It is knowledge a man keeps to himself, isn’t it? But, by Heaven, you shall tell me before you leave this place, or——”
“We have already one good ground of quarrel,” I interrupted. “What need is there of another?”
“A good ground of quarrel?” he repeated, in a questioning tone.
Honestly I believe that he had for the moment forgotten. His passion for Marie Delhasse and fury at the loss of her filled his whole mind.
“Oh, yes,” he went on. “About the duchess?
