“And I told you I had seen enough of her already.”

“Look at me. In my presence, and in the presence of the other persons here, do you deny that you owe this lady, by your own solemn engagement, the reparation of marriage?”

He suddenly lifted his head.  His eyes, after resting for an instant only on Sir Patrick, turned, little by little; and, brightening slowly, fixed themselves with a hideous, tigerish glare on Anne’s face.  “I know what I owe her,” he said.

The devouring hatred of his look was matched by the ferocious vindictiveness of his tone, as he spoke those words.  It was horrible to see him; it was horrible to hear him.  Mr. Moy said to him, in a whisper, “Control yourself, or I will throw up your case.”

Without answering—­without even listening—­he lifted one of his hands, and looked at it vacantly.  He whispered something to himself; and counted out what he was whispering slowly; in divisions of his own, on three of his fingers in succession.  He fixed his eyes again on Anne with the same devouring hatred in their look, and spoke (this time directly addressing himself to her) with the same ferocious vindictiveness in his tone.  “But for you, I should be married to Mrs. Glenarm.  But for you, I should be friends with my father.  But for you, I should have won the race.  I know what I owe you.”  His loosely hanging hands stealthily clenched themselves.  His head sank again on his broad breast.  He said no more.

Not a soul moved—­not a word was spoken.  The same common horror held them all speechless.  Anne’s eyes turned once more on Blanche.  Anne’s courage upheld her, even at that moment.

Sir Patrick rose.  The strong emotion which he had suppressed thus far, showed itself plainly in his face—­uttered itself plainly in his voice.

“Come into the next room,” he said to Anne.  “I must speak to you instantly!”

Without noticing the astonishment that he caused; without paying the smallest attention to the remonstrances addressed to him by his sister-in-law and by the Scotch lawyer, he took Anne by the arm, opened the folding-doors at one end of the room—­entered the room beyond with her—­and closed the doors again.

Lady Lundie appealed to her legal adviser.  Blanche rose—­advanced a few steps—­and stood in breathless suspense, looking at the folding-doors.  Arnold advanced a step, to speak to his wife.  The captain approached Mr. Moy.

“What does this mean?” he asked.

Mr. Moy answered, in strong agitation on his side.

“It means that I have not been properly instructed.  Sir Patrick Lundie has some evidence in his possession that seriously compromises Mr. Delamayn’s case.  He has shrunk from producing it hitherto—­he finds himself forced to produce it now.  How is it,” asked the lawyer, turning sternly on his client, “that you have left me in the dark?”

“I know nothing about it,” answered Geoffrey, without lifting his head.