She laid an imploring hand on her husband’s arm.

“Stay with me!” she begged him faintly.

He did not move or speak.

Curtis stood up.

“Presently, then!” he said, and she heard him move away.

At the door he paused, and she thought he made some rapid sign to Mercer.  But the next moment she heard the door close softly, and knew that he had gone.

She lay quite still thereafter, her heart fluttering too much for speech.  What would he say to her, she wondered; how would he break his silence?  She had no weapon to oppose against his anger.  She was as powerless before it as Beelzebub had been.

Suddenly he moved.  He turned her head back upon his arm and looked straight down into her eyes.  She did not shrink.  She would not.  But her heart died within her.  She felt as if she were gazing into hell, watching a soul in torment.

“Well?” he said at last.  “Are you satisfied?”

“Satisfied?” she faltered.

“As to the sort of monster you have married,” he explained, with savage bitterness.  “You’ve been putting out feelers ever since you came here.  Did you think I didn’t know?  Well, you’ve found out a little more than you wanted, this time.  Perhaps it will be a lesson to you.  Perhaps”—­sheer cruelty shone red in his eyes—­“when you see what I’ve done to you, you will remember that I am not a man to play with, and that any one, man or woman, who interferes with me, must pay the price.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she answered with an effort.  “What happened was an accident.”

“Was it?” he said brutally.  “Was it?”

Still she did not shrink from him.

“Yes,” she said.  “It was an accident.”

“How do you know?” he asked.

She answered him instantly.  She had not realized till then that she was fighting the flames for his soul.  The knowledge came upon her suddenly, and it gave her strength.

“Because I know that you love me,” she said.  “Because—­because—­though you are cruel, and though you may be wicked—­I love you, too.”

She said it with absolute sincerity, but it was the hardest thing she had ever done in her life.  To tell this man who was half animal and half fiend that he had not somehow touched the woman’s heart in her seemed almost a desecration.  She saw the flare of passion leap up in his eyes, and she was conscious for one sick moment of a feeling of downright repulsion.  If she had only succeeded in turning his savagery into another channel she had spoken in vain; or, worse, she had made a mistake that could never be remedied.

Abruptly she felt her courage waver.  She shrank at last.

“I want you to understand,” she faltered; and again, “I want you to understand.”

But she could get no further.  She hid her face against him and began to sob.

There followed a silence, tense and terrible, which she dared not break.