“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.”