“I am not deaf.  What do you want here?”

“It is my room; I suppose I have a right to be here.”

“I apologise for having intruded.”

“None of your smooth speeches.  The Englishman has schooled you carefully, I see.  Can you say ‘good-bye’ in English yet?”

“Why should I say ’good-bye’?”

“It is time.  You will come back to me now.”

“Never.”

Gregorio laughed hysterically and stood beside her.  His fingers played with her hair.  In spite of her fear lest she should irritate him, Xantippe shrank from his touch.  Gregorio noticed her aversion and said savagely: 

“You must get used to me, Xantippe.  From to-night we live together again.  It is not necessary now for you to earn money.”

“I shall not come back to you.  I have told you I hate you.  It is your own fault that I leave you.”

“It will be my fault if you do leave me.”

He pushed her on to the mattress and held her there.

“Let us talk,” he said.

For a few minutes there was silence, and then he continued: 

“Amos is dead, and our debts are paid.”

“How did you pay them?”

“With this,” and as he spoke he touched the handle of his knife.  “Don’t shudder; he deserved it, and I shall be safe in a few days.  These affairs are quickly forgotten.  Besides, there is another reason why we should not live as we have lately been living.”

Xantippe opened her eyes as she asked, “What reason?”

Gregorio relaxed his hold, for the memory of his loss shook him with sobs.  Cat-like, Xantippe had waited her opportunity and sprang away from his grasp.  The movement brought the man to his senses.  He rushed at her with an oath, waving the knife in his hand.  Xantippe prepared to defend herself.  They stood, desperate, before each other, neither daring to begin the struggle.  Through the awful silence came the sound of sobs and a plaintive voice crying: 

“Gregorio, come back, leave her; I love you.”

“Is Madam Marx outside?” hissed Xantippe.

“Yes.”

“Then go to her.  I tell you I hate you.”  She pointed to the half-filled box—­“I was going to leave here to-night.  I will never return to you.”

“You were going with the Englishman?”

“He is a man.”

Gregorio paused a moment, then in a suppressed voice, half choking at the words, said: 

“Our son—­do you know what has happened to him?  You shall not leave me.”

“I know about our son.  I am glad to think he is away from your evil influence.  Let me pass.”  Xantippe moved toward the door, but Gregorio seized her by the throat.

“You are glad our son is killed; you helped Amos to kill him.”

Rage and despair impelled him.  Laughing brutally, he struck her on the breast, and, as he tottered, sent his knife deep into her heart.  For a few seconds he stood over her exulting, and then opened the door.  Madam Marx, white with fear, rushed into the room.  Seeing the murdered woman, a look of triumph came into her eyes.  But it was a momentary triumph, for she realised at once the gravity of the crime.  She had little pity or sorrow to waste on the dead, but she was full of concern for the safety of the murderer.