Ever so slightly the pressure of his hands upon her throat strengthened
and increased. A very little more and the lovely thing of life he
watched would be broken and cold for ever. Her eyes were steady, she
showed no sign of fear, she stood perfectly still, her hands loosely
clasped together before her. He groaned, and his arms fell to his side,
helpless. Without the slightest change of expression, she said:

"What were you going to do?"

"I don't know," he answered. "Do you ever go mad? I do, I think. Perhaps
you do too, and that explains it. Do you know where Charley Wright is?"

"Yes," she answered directly. "Why? Did you know him, then?"

"You know where he is now?" Dunn repeated.

She nodded quietly.

"I heard from him only last week," she said.

"I am certainly mad or you are," he muttered, staring at her with eyes
in which such wonder and horror showed that it seemed there really was a
touch of madness there.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"You heard from him last week," he said again, and again she answered:

"Yes--last week. Why not?"

He leaned forward, and before she knew what he intended to do he kissed
her pale, cool cheek.

Once more she stood still and immobile, her hands loosely clasped before
her. It might have been that he had kissed a statue, and her perfect
stillness made him afraid.

"Ella," he said. "Ella."

"Why did you do that?" she said, a little wildly now in her turn. "It
was not that you were going to do to me before."

"I love you," he muttered excusingly.

She shook her head.

"You know too little of me; you have too many doubt and fears," she
said. "You do not love me, you do not even trust me."

"I love you all the same," he asserted positively and roughly. "I loved
you--it was when I tied your hands to the chair that night and you
looked at me with such contempt, and asked me if I felt proud. That
stung, that stung. I loved you then."

"You see," she said sadly, "you do not even pretend to trust me. I don't
know why you should. Why are you here? Why are you disguised with all
that growth of hair? There is something you are preparing, planning. I
know it. I feel it. What is it?"

"I told you once before," he answered, "that the end of this will be
Deede Dawson's death or mine. That's what I'm preparing."

"He is very cunning, very clever," she said. "Do you think he suspects
you?"

"He suspects every one always," answered Dunn. "I've been trying to get