“You accursed blackguard—­you unmanly cur!” he said; “you and that wicked woman,” and he shook his hand at Elizabeth, “conspired together to bring a slur upon Beatrice.  You did more:  you threatened to attack me, to try and ruin me if she would not give herself up to you.  You loathsome hypocrite, you tortured her and frightened her; now I am here to frighten you.  You said that you would make the country ring with your tales.  I tell you this—­are you listening to me?  If you dare to mention her name in such a sense, or if that woman dares, I will break every bone in your wretched body—­by Heaven I will kill you!” and he cast Davies from him, and as he did so, struck him heavily across the face with the back of his hand.

The man took no notice either of his words or of the deadly insult of the blow.

“Is it true?” he screamed, “is it true that she is dead?”

“Yes,” said Geoffrey, following him, and bending his tall square frame over him, for Davies had fallen against the wall, “yes, it is true—­she is dead—­and beyond your reach for ever.  Pray to God that you may not one day be called her murderers, all of you—­you shameless cowards.”

Owen Davies gave one shrill cry and sank in a huddled heap upon the ground.

“There is no God,” he moaned; “God promised her to me, to be my own—­you have killed her; you—­you seduced her first and then you killed her.  I believe you killed her.  Oh, I shall go mad!”

“Mad or sane,” said Geoffrey, “say those words once more and I will stamp the life out of you where you are.  You say that God promised her to you—­promised that woman to a hound like you.  Ah, be careful!”

Owen Davies made no answer.  Crouched there upon the ground he rocked himself to and fro, and moaned in the madness of his baulked desire.

“This man,” said Geoffrey, turning towards and pointing to Elizabeth, who was glaring at him like a wild cat from the corner of the room, “said that there is no God.  I say that there is a God, and that one day, soon or late, vengeance will find you out—­you murderess, you writer of anonymous letters; you who, to advance your own wicked ends whatever they may be, were not ashamed to try to drag your innocent sister’s name into the dirt.  I never believed in a hell till now, but there must be a hell for such as you, Elizabeth Granger.  Go your ways; live out your time; but live every hour of it in terror of the vengeance that shall come so surely as you shall die.

“Now for you, sir,” he went on, addressing the trembling father.  “I do not blame you so much, because I believe that this viper poisoned your mind.  You might have thought that the tale was true.  It is not true; it was a lie.  Beatrice, who now is dead, came into my room in her sleep, and was carried from it as she came.  And you, her father, allowed this villain and your daughter to use her distress against her; you allowed him to make a lever of it, with which to force her into a marriage that she loathed.  Yes, cover up your face—­you may well do so.  Do your worst, one and all of you, but remember that this time you have to deal with a man who can and will strike back, not a poor friendless girl.”