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" He did not reply. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. ’ He called through the library door. “I think I ought to have one. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. So that the thought of Ann Veronica up-stairs had been extremely painful for her through all the silent dinner-time that night. It is that, is it not?” “No,” he answered readily. " "Are you man, or fiend?" exclaimed Trenchard, staring at the stranger, as he concluded his narration.
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