“It is a trumped-up charge against one of the best men God ever made,” said Barbara. “You cannot prove it.” “I will prove it yet. But what I have come about now is to ask why _you_ have interfered in this matter.” “What do you mean?” “Why did you get Mrs. Pelham to prosecute my husband?” “I only told her the simple truth. I could not do otherwise—the burden rested too heavy on my soul.” “Your eyes belie your words. You did not do it for that reason.” An evil spirit seemed to leap out of Tarbot’s face at that moment, and he came closer to Barbara. Barbara did not repel him. On the contrary, she looked full at him. His eyes quailed for a moment under her gaze; then they were lifted, and she saw the triumph in them. “You have not answered my question,” she said. “Even granted that there was truth in what you said, why should you be the one to take the initiative?” “Do you really want to know?” His voice had dropped now to a low tone, his white lips trembled, he came yet closer. Suddenly Barbara felt his hand laid heavily on her shoulder. She did not shrink from his touch. “Shall I really tell you?” he repeated. “Yes.” “I did it because of you. I loved you, and you treated me with scorn. If you had married me I could have been a good man. As it is, I am a bad one. I was glad to have this handle against your husband. Having discovered the truth, I was glad to incite Mrs. Pelham to prosecute. Why? Because it hurt you—it hurt you.” The touch of his hand felt like fire. Barbara noticed it for the first time. “Let me go,” she said. “I will not. My moment of triumph has come, and I shall take it.” The next instant he had caught her in both his arms, and was pressing his burning kisses on her lips. “You drove me mad,” he said, “but this is my hour of triumph. I loved you, and you treated me with scorn. Yes, I am bad now, and you are the cause. When your husband hangs for this crime, my revenge will be complete.” “You are a monster, and I treat you with the contempt you deserve,” cried Barbara. “Touch me again if you dare!” She extricated herself from his grasp with a sudden quick movement. “My husband will be cleared,” she said. “As there is a God above, he is innocent, and I defy you, Dr. Tarbot. Don’t keep me, sir.” She left the room. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE LAST STRAW. Barbara had scarcely gone before the door of the consulting-room was opened, and Clara came in. Clara wore her old gray bonnet and cloak, her nurse’s dress. Tarbot, who was standing by the mantelpiece with an excited look in his eyes and his lips still trembling, turned when she entered. “Leave me,” he said. “I cannot speak to you at present. Go away.”