“Are you quite decided, and is there no chance of any change in my favor?”

“I am quite decided, Mr. Headstone, and I am bound to answer I am certain there is none.”

“Then,” said he, suddenly changing his tone and turning to her, and bringing his clenched hand down upon the stone with a force that laid the knuckles raw and bleeding; “then I hope that I may never kill him!”

The dark look of hatred and revenge with which the words broke from his livid lips, and with which he stood holding out his smeared hand as if it held some weapon and had just struck a mortal blow, made her so afraid of him that she turned to run away. But he caught her by the arm.

“Mr. Headstone, let me go. Mr. Headstone, I must call for help!”

“It is I who should call for help,” he said; “you don’t know yet how much I need it.”

The working of his face as she shrank from it, glancing round for her brother and uncertain what to do, might have extorted a cry from her in another instant; but all at once he sternly stopped it and fixed it, as if Death itself had done so.

“There! You see I have recovered myself. Hear me out.”

With much of the dignity of courage, as she recalled her self-reliant life and her right to be free from accountability to this man, she released her arm from his grasp and stood looking full at him. She had never been so handsome, in his eyes. A shade came over them while he looked back at her, as if she drew the very light out of them to herself.

“This time, at least, I will leave nothing unsaid,” he went on, folding his hands before him, clearly to prevent his being betrayed into any impetuous gesture; “this last time at least I will not be tortured with after- thoughts of a lost opportunity. Mr. Eugene Wrayburn.”

“Was it of him you spoke in your ungovernable rage and violence?” Lizzie Hexam demanded with spirit.

He bit his lip, and looked at her, and said never a word.

“Was it Mr. Wrayburn that you threatened?”

He bit his lip again, and looked at her, and said never a word.

“You asked me to hear you out, and you will not speak. Let me find my brother.”

“Stay! I threatened no one.”

Her look dropped for an instant to his bleeding hand. He lifted it to his mouth, wiped it on his sleeve, and again folded it over the other. “Mr. Eugene Wrayburn,” he repeated.

“Why do you mention that name again and again, Mr. Headstone?”

“Because it is the text of the little I have left to say. Observe! There are no threats in it. If I utter a threat, stop me, and fasten it upon me. Mr. Eugene Wrayburn.”

A worse threat than was conveyed in his manner of uttering the name, could hardly have escaped him.

“He haunts you. You accept favors from him. You are willing enough to listen to him. I know it, as well as he does.”