A quiver of pain went over her face as she ended.  With a swift, passionate movement she rose, flinging her mask of composure aside.  The hand that gripped her wrist was bruising her flesh, but she never felt it.

“Yes,” she said, with abrupt vehemence.  “That is what you have done—­you—­you!  You would not stoop to win her.  You chose to take her by force, and force is the one thing in the world that she will never tolerate.  You bullied her, frightened her, humiliated her.  You drove her to do this desperate thing.  And you face me now, you dare to face me, because I am a weak woman.  If I were a man, I would kick you out of the house.  I—­I believe I would kill you!  Even Nan cannot hate you or despise you one-tenth as much as I do!”

She ceased, but her eyes blazed their hatred at him as her heart cursed him.  She was furious as a tigress that defends her young.

As for the man, his hand was still clenched upon her wrist, but no violent outburst escaped him.  He was white to the lips, but he was absolutely sane.  If he heard her wild reproaches, he passed them over.

“Who is the man?” he said, and his voice fell like a word of command, arresting, controlling, compelling.

It was not what she had expected.  She had been prepared for tempestuous, for overwhelming, wrath.  The absence of this oddly disconcerted her.  Her own tornado of indignation was checked.  She answered him almost involuntarily.

“Jerry Lister.”

He frowned as if trying to recall the owner of the name, and again without her conscious will she explained.

“You saw him that night at the ball.  They were together all the evening.”

The frown passed from his face.

“That—­cub!” he said slowly.  “And”—­his eyes were searching hers closely; he spoke with unswerving determination—­“where have they gone?”

She withstood his look though she felt its compulsion.

“I refuse to tell you that.”

“You know?” he questioned.

“Yes, I know.”

“Then you will tell me.”  He spoke with conviction.  She felt as if his eyes were burning her.

“Then you will tell me,” he repeated, as if she had not heard him.

“I refuse,” she said again; but she said it with a wavering resolution.  Undoubtedly there was something colossal about this man.  She began to feel the grip of his fingers upon her wrist.  The pain of it became intense, yet she knew that he was not intentionally torturing her.

“You are hurting me,” she said, and instantly his hold relaxed.  But he did not let her go.

“Answer me!” he said.

“Why should I answer you?” It was the last resort of her weakening will.

He betrayed no impatience.

“You will answer me for your sister’s sake,” he told her grimly.

“What do you mean?  You will follow her?”

“I shall follow her.”

“And bring her back?”