The statement was almost an interrogation.

Barbara nodded affirmatively.

“You see, Billy,” she started, “I have always known Mr. Mallory, and always thought that I loved him until—­until—­” There was no answering light in Billy’s eyes—­no encouragement for the words that were on her lips.  She halted lamely.  “Then,” she went on presently, “we became engaged after we reached New York.  We all thought you dead,” she concluded simply.

“Do you think as much of him now as you did when you promised to marry him?” he asked, ignoring her reference to himself and all that it implied.

Barbara nodded.

“What is at the bottom of this row?” persisted Billy.  He had fallen back into the decent pronunciation that Barbara had taught him, but neither noticed the change.  For a moment he had forgotten that he was playing a part.  Then he recollected.

“Nothing much,” replied the girl.  “I couldn’t rid myself of the feeling that they had murdered you, by leaving you back there alone and wounded.  I began to think ‘coward’ every time I saw Mr. Mallory.  I couldn’t marry him, feeling that way toward him, and, Billy, I really never loved him as—­as—­” Again she stumbled, but the mucker made no attempt to grasp the opportunity opened before him.

Instead he crossed the library to the telephone.  Running through the book he came presently upon the number he sought.  A moment later he had his connection.

“Is this Mallory?” he asked.

“I’m Byrne—­Billy Byrne.  De guy dat cracked your puss fer youse on de Lotus.”

“Dead, hell!  Not me.  Say, I’m up here at Barbara’s.”

“Yes, dat’s wot I said.  She wants youse to beat it up here’s swift as youse kin beat it.”

Barbara Harding stepped forward.  Her eyes were blazing.

“How dare you?” she cried, attempting to seize the telephone from Billy’s grasp.

He turned his huge frame between her and the instrument.  “Git a move!” he shouted into the mouthpiece.  “Good-bye!” and he hung up.

Then he turned back toward the angry girl.

“Look here,” he said.  “Once youse was strong on de sob stuff wit me, tellin’ me how noble I was, an’ all de different tings youse would do fer me to repay all I done fer youse.  Now youse got de chanct.”

“What do you mean?” asked the girl, puzzled.  “What can I do for you?”

“Youse kin do dis fer me.  When Mallory gits here youse kin tell him dat de engagement is all on again—­see!”

In the wide eyes of the girl Billy read a deeper hurt than he had dreamed of.  He had thought that it would not be difficult for her to turn back from the vulgar mucker to the polished gentleman.  And when he saw that she was suffering, and guessed that it was because he had tried to crush her love by brute force he could carry the game no further.