“Is that a threat?”

“No.  I will act, not threaten.”

“Ah,” drawled Ruthven, “I may do the same the next time my wife spends the evening in your apartment.”

“You lie,” said Selwyn in a voice made low by surprise.

“Oh, no, I don’t.  Very chivalrous of you—­quite proper for you to deny it like a gentleman—­but useless, quite useless.  So the less said about invoking the law, the better for—­some people.  You’ll agree with me, I dare say. . . .  And now, concerning your friend, Gerald Erroll—­I have not the slightest desire to see him play cards.  Whether or not he plays is a matter perfectly indifferent to me, and you had better understand it.  But if you come here demanding that I arrange my guest-lists to suit you, you are losing time.”

Selwyn, almost stunned at Ruthven’s knowledge of the episode in his rooms, had risen as he gave the man the lie direct.

For an instant, now, as he stared at him, there was murder in his eye.  Then the utter hopeless helplessness of his position overwhelmed him, as Ruthven, with danger written all over him, stood up, his soft smooth thumbs hooked in the glittering sash of his kimona.

“Scowl if you like,” he said, backing away instinctively, but still nervously impertinent; “and keep your distance!  If you’ve anything further to say to me, write it.”  Then, growing bolder as Selwyn made no offensive move, “Write to me,” he repeated with a venomous smirk; “it’s safer for you to figure as my correspondent than as my wife’s co-respondent—­L-let go of me!  W-what the devil are you d-d-doing—­”

For Selwyn had him fast—­one sinewy hand twisted in his silken collar, holding him squirming at arm’s length.

“M-murder!” stammered Mr. Ruthven.

“No,” said Selwyn, “not this time.  But be very, very careful after this.”

And he let him go with an involuntary shudder, and wiped his hands on his handkerchief.

Ruthven stood quite still; and after a moment the livid terror died out in his face and a rushing flush spread over it—­a strange, dreadful shade, curiously opaque; and he half turned, dizzily, hands outstretched for self-support.

Selwyn coolly watched him as he sank on to the couch and sat huddled together and leaning forward, his soft, ringed fingers covering his impurpled face.

Then Selwyn went away with a shrug of utter loathing; but after he had gone, and Ruthven’s servants had discovered him and summoned a physician, their master lay heavily amid his painted draperies and cushions, his congested features set, his eyes partly open and possessing sight, but the whites of them had disappeared and the eyes themselves, save for the pupils, were like two dark slits filled with blood.

There was no doubt about it; the doctors, one and all, knew their business when they had so often cautioned Mr. Ruthven to avoid sudden and excessive emotions.