The question was unfortunate, for it loosened Jerry’s thick tongue.

“Yes.  Something’s happened,” he muttered, moving a hand across his brows as though to clear his thoughts.  And then: 

“I’ve waked up, that’s all,” he growled.

“Waked!  I don’t understand,” her voice still gentle, appealing, incredulous.

“Yes, awake.  You’re false as hell.”

“Oh,” she started back at that and the venturesome Lloyd took a pace forward.

“I say, Benham, I—­” He got no further, for Jerry without even looking at him, swept his left arm around, the gesture of a giant bothered by a troublesome insect.  But it caught the fellow full in the chest, and sent him reeling backward.  Jerry’s business just now was with Marcia Van Wyck.

“You understand what I mean,” he went on quickly.  “You’ve played false with me.  You’ve always played false.  I saw you there this morning kissing this man, the way you kissed me, the way you kiss others for all that I know.”

“You’re mad.  You insult me.”  She rose, pale and trembling, but facing him hardily.

“No, I’m not mad.  Nothing that I can say can insult you.”

“Chan!” She appealed.

It was a fatal mistake, for at the word Lloyd came forward again, bent on making some show of resistance.  Jerry turned on him with a snarl, for the fellow had foolishly put up his hands.  A few blows passed and then—­Jerry told what happened rather apologetically—­“It was a pity, Roger.  It wasn’t altogether his fault, but he is a bounder.  My fist struck his face, seemed to smear it, literally, all into a blot of red.  It wasn’t like hitting a man in the ring, it was like—­like poking a bag full of dirty linen.  The whole fabric seemed to give way.  He toppled back, turned a complete somersault and collapsed.”

I made no comment.  I already knew that Lloyd hadn’t been killed.  The girl Marcia seemed stricken dumb for a moment and found her voice only when Jerry turned toward her again.

“Jerry,” she cried.  “It is horrible.  You’re a brute—­beast—­”

Jerry only pointed at the prostrate figure slowly struggling to its knees.

“Go and kiss him,” he cried.  “Go.  Kiss him now.  He’s on his knees to you, waiting for you.”

While they watched, Lloyd got to his feet, turned one look of terror in Jerry’s direction and then fled blindly into the woods, like one possessed of a devil.

Jerry laughed.  It couldn’t have been very pretty laughter, for the girl covered her face with her hands and shrank away from him.

“How could you?” she stammered.  “How could you?”

“You were mine.  He wanted you.”

“Jerry—­I—.  It’s all a mistake.  You thought you saw us.  I haven’t kissed—­”

“You lie,” he came a pace toward her.  “I saw you.  I’m not a fool—­not any longer.”

Her gaze met his and fell.  There was something in his expression, something of the primitive that tore away all subterfuge.