"What is it?" he demanded, turning to her with his heart athump from the binding clasp of her fingers.
"It's—it's," she said and held faster as he tried to free his wrist. "It's that I'm going to beat you; I'm going to beat you to a pulp!"
She flung down his arm, which he let hang beside him, as he watched her walk away.
When she had disappeared, he examined his wrist which exhibited a row of white marks made by the pressure of her finger-tips and one small, crescent nail-mark which bled. He scarcely could feel it, physically, but it aroused in him surprising sensation. It was blood drawn by her with intent to hurt him. He was sure that she had meant to hurt him and it excited an amazing conflict of pleasure and offense.
He dabbed away the drops of blood and, after he had done this once more, the bleeding ceased and the little cut required no more attention; yet, after he had returned to his office and was at his desk and when he was sure that Ellison was not watching, he furtively thrust back his cuff and regarded the little red nail-mark with a queer, puzzling excitement.
Ellison, who during the day had been assigned to the case, looked up from his examination of the evidence which had been brought down from the grand jury room.
"We've a good hanging case, I'd say," he asserted, "but for that Royle girl."
"We'll beat that Royle girl!" Calvin promised.
