Instantly he was across the threshold and at her
side. He gripped her wrist and shook it, his eyes burning into hers.
"You will tell me that he lied! I told him he lied. I didn't believe
him for a second. I told him I would ask you."
"Please let go of my arm," she said, faintly. "I don't know what you
are--talking about."
"Did he lie?"
"Who?" she stammered.
"My grandfather. He said your brother was not your brother. He said he
was your lover. My God! Your lover! Did he lie?" He shook her arm,
worrying it as a dog might, his nails cutting into her flesh; he
snarled his question out between shut teeth. His fury swept words from
her lips.
She stepped back with a spring of terror, trying to pull her wrist
from his grasp; but he followed her, his dreadful young face close to
hers. She put her other hand behind her, and clutched at the banister-
rail of the stairs. She stared at him in a trance of fright. There was
a long minute of silence.
Then Sam said slowly, as though he were reading it word by word,
aloud, from the open page of her face, "He--did--not--lie." He dropped
her wrist; flung it from him, even, and stood motionless. Again
neither of them spoke. Then Sam drew a long breath. "So, _this_
is life," he said, in a curiously meditative way. "Well; I have had
enough of it." He turned as he spoke, and went quietly out into the
night.
Helena Richie sat down on the lowest step of the stairs.
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