“I was—­I am—­” he began, stepping closer to her; but she stopped him.

“Not for a minute,” she went on, without heeding him.  “And you had no right to say that to me.”

“What?” he demanded.

“What you said.  My husband loved me with all the strength of a noble, high-minded man, and notwithstanding the difference in our ages, treated me as his equal; and I loved him—­yes, loved him devotedly,” she said, as she saw a spark come into his eyes.

“You love some one else now,” he said coolly.

It might have been anger that brought the rush of color to her face.  She turned and looked him full in the face.

“If I do, it is not you.”

The arrow went home.  His eyes snapped with anger.

“You took such lofty ground just now that I should hardly have supposed the attentions of Mr. Wentworth meant anything so serious.  I thought that was mere friendship.”

This time there was no doubt that the color meant anger.

“What do you mean?” she demanded, looking him once more full in the eyes.

“I refer to what the world says, especially as he himself is such a model of all the Christian virtues.”

“What the world says?  What do you mean?” she persisted, never taking her eyes from his face.

He simply shrugged his shoulders.

“So I assume Mr. Keith is the fortunate suitor for the remnant of your affections:  Keith the immaculate—­Keith the pure and pious gentleman who trades on his affections.  I wish you good luck.”

At his insolence Mrs. Lancaster’s patience suddenly snapped.

“Go,” she said, pointing to the door.  “Go.”

When Wickersham walked out into the street, his face was white and drawn, and a strange light was in his eyes.  He had played one of his last cards, and had played it like a fool.  Luck had gone against him, and he had lost his head.  His heart—­that heart that had never known remorse and rarely dismay—­began to sink.  Luck had been going against him now for a long time, so long that it had swept away his fortune and most of his credit.  What was worse to him, he was conscious that he had lost his nerve.  Where should he turn?  Unless luck turned or he could get help he would go down.  He canvassed the various means of escape.  Man after man had fallen away from him.  Every scheme had failed.

He attributed it all to Norman—­to Norman and Keith.  Norman had ruined him in New York; Keith had blocked him and balked him in the South.  But one resource remained to him.  He would make one more supreme effort.  Then, if he failed?  He thought of a locked drawer in his desk, and a black pistol under the papers there.  His cheek blanched at the thought, but his lips closed tight.  He would not survive disgrace.  His disgrace meant the known loss of his fortune.  One thing he would do.  Keith had escaped him, had succeeded, but Norman he could overthrow.  Norman had been struck hard; he would now complete his ruin.  With this mental tonic he straightened up and walked rapidly down the street.