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Page 39
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."
"Demon!" shrieks Dora, recoiling from him. "You would fix the crime on
me?"
"Why not? I think the whole case tells terribly against you. Hitherto I
have spared you, I have refrained from hinting even at the fact that
your jealousy had been aroused of late; but your conduct of to-day, and
the wily manner in which you have sought to accuse me of being
implicated in this unfortunate mystery connected with my unhappy cousin,
have made me regret my forbearance. Be warned in time, cease to
persecute me about this matter, or--wretched woman that you are--I shall
certainly make it my business to investigate the entire matter, and
bring you to justice!"
He speaks with such an air of truth, of thorough belief in her guilt,
that Dora is dazed, bewildered, and, falling back from him, covers her
face with her hands. The fear of publicity, of having her late intrigue
brought into the glare of day, fills her with consternation. And then,
what will she gain by it? Nothing; she has no evidence on which to
convict this man; all is mere supposition. She bitterly feels the
weakness of her position, and her inability to follow up her accusation.
"Ah, how like a guilty creature you stand there!" exclaims Dynecourt,
regarding her bowed and trembling figure. "I see plainly that this must
be looked into. Miserable woman! If you know aught of my cousin, you had
better declare it now."
"Traitor!" cries Dora, raising her pale face and looking at him with
horror and defiance. "You triumph now, because, as yet, I have no
evidence to support my belief, but"--she hesitates.
"Ah, brazen it out to the last!" says Dynecourt insolently. "Defy me
while you can. To-day I shall set the blood-hounds of the law upon your
track, so beware--beware!"
"You refuse to tell me anything?" exclaims Dora, ignoring his words, and
treating them as though they are unheard. "So much the worse for you."
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