“Good to me”—­the words seemed to stab at Madison, seemed to ring in his ears and goad him with a fiercer jealousy—­and her story of the night, what she had been saying, save those words, was as nothing, meant nothing, was swept from his consciousness—­and only she, standing there before him, glorious, maddening in her beauty, remained.  Soul, mind and body leaped into fiery passion—­she was his, and his she always would be—­those eyes, those lips, the white throat, those perfect arms to cling about his neck—­and all of heaven and hell and earth were naught beside her.

“I love you!”—­his face was white, his words fierce-breathed, almost incoherent—­and he leaned toward her with a sudden, uncontrollable movement, his arms sweeping out to clasp her.  “I love you, Helena—­I love you.  Do you understand—­it’s you!  You—­I love you!”

“You love me!”—­she retreated from him, but her head was raised now, and her voice rang with a bitterness cold as the touch of death.  “Love!  What do you know of love!  We talk plain, you say.  Love—­love for me!  Passion, vice, lust, sin—­and, oh, my God, degradation and misery and shame—­love!  Love!  That is your love!”

He stood for a moment and stared at her again—­and her face was as pallid ivory.  And something seemed to daze him, and he brushed his hand across his eyes—­the logic was faulty, torn and pitiful, and he groped after the flaw.

“It’s—­it’s your love as well as mine,” he said in a stumbling way—­then his brain flashed quick into action.  “My love—­what other love have you known but that?” he cried.  “It’s our love—­the love we have known together—­and we’re going back to it—­see?  I’ve had enough of this.  You pack your trunks—­and pack them quick!  We’re going to beat it out of here!  We’re going back to our—­love.  We’re going back where I don’t have to sit around like a puling fool and watch Thornton chuck you under the chin—­we’re going where he’ll want a tombstone if he ever shows his face there.  You thought the game would hold me to the last jackpot—­did you?  Well, I’ve got enough—­and there’s no game big enough to make me stand for this.  That looks like love—­doesn’t it?” He burst again into a sudden, mirthless laugh—­and once again swept his hand across his eyes.  “We’re going to beat it out of here now—­to-night—­to-morrow morning.”

But now she had drawn further away from him—­and there was a frightened look in her eyes, and her lips quivered pitifully.

“No—­I can’t—­I can’t,” she cried out.  “No, no—­I can’t—­I can’t go back to that.”

“That!  That—­is love,” he said wildly.  “The only love you know.  What more do you want?  There’s loot enough now, and—­ha, ha!—­that little contribution of Thornton’s, to give you all the money you want.  Love, Helena—­you and I—­the old love—­you and I together again, Helena.  I tell you I love you—­do you hear?  I love you—­and I’ll have you—­I love you!  What do you know, what do you care about any other kind of love!”