"You wouldn't be difficult to manage." "I shouldn't resist. If you broke my head to pieces with the poker I wouldn't make a sound." "The poker? Not such a fool! He would be sanguine who hoped to explain a poker." He had been sitting back in his chair; now, leaning forward, he rested his arms on the table. "Suppose I had another of those things which were in the silver box. If I gave it to you would you take it?" "No." Her face had become all at once so pale that her very lips seemed white. "I should have to go through the form of making you." "You would have to do to me what you did to your uncle." "And if I did, what then?--what then?" If he expected an answer it did not come. She stood confronting him, so immobile that she scarcely seemed to breathe. The smile was on his face which had seemed the night before to give it such unpleasant significance, as if unholy thoughts were chasing each other through his mind. "I'll be frank with you." If he expected her to speak he was again disappointed. "If I could explain you--I'd do it, but I don't see how I could. How can I? Suggest an explanation." "You won't kill me; you dare not. You only killed your uncle because you thought you wouldn't be found out." "You think that was the only reason? You don't think that I had a choice of evils, and that I merely chose what seemed to be the lesser?" "I wonder why you killed him?" "In your case you wouldn't wonder?" "Was it because of Miss Patterson?" "As how?" "Because you've treated her as you've treated me, and her father found out. If I thought--if I thought---- Take that paper and write on it what I told you--now! now! now!" "And if I don't?" "If you don't kill me--and you won't, you're afraid--I'll have you hanged!" "So with you also it is a choice of evils." "Write what I told you--write it----" She had raised her voice nearly to a scream. All at once she was still, leaving her sentence unfinished. There were sounds without of a key being put in a lock, of a door being opened, of steps in the passage. She spoke in a whisper, hurriedly, eagerly, and the fashion of her countenance was changed: "That's Mr. Dale come back from the station. If you don't write what I told you now, I'll call him in--I will!" He also spoke in a whisper, and in some subtle fashion his countenance was also changed: "Mabel, don't--don't be hard on me." "Then write, write what I told you; write it now. If I do call him in it'll be too late. Write!" He drew the bill stamp towards him and picked up the fountain pen. His air was more than a trifle sullen. "What am I to write?" "You know perfectly well. Write: 'I, Rodney Elmore, promise to marry on Thursday next Mabel Joyce, who is about to bear a child of which I am the father.' Write that. Now sign it, put your name at the bottom, and the date. I'll blot it."