“By Heaven!” cried Sir John softly; he came a little nearer. “Did you inform her of anything?” Her eyes met his with a full look of aversion. “What is the object of this?” she asked. “Why do you take this manner to me?” His eye caught a letter lying by the bird-cage, and the sight of it reminded him of the Viscount’s second accusation. “To whom do you write?” he demanded. She caught the letter up and rose. “To Mr. Wharton,” she answered. “Give it to me,” flashed Sir John with a step forward. Lady Dalrymple drew back, the letter held to her bosom. “I give up my friends at your desire,” she said. “This is an insult.” Their eyes exchanged hatred, furious on his side, fear mingled with hers. “Give it to me,” he repeated hoarsely. “No,” she answered, “you have no right.” “No right!” He half-laughed. “Do you defy me?” Her spirit rose at his tone. “You go too far, Sir John,” she shuddered. “Stand further away from me,” and at the same instant she flung the letter into the fire, her eyes flashing with anger. “You may think what you will of the contents,” she said. “And I did—” “You did what, madam?” Her glance winced under his, but she answered disdainfully: “I told the girl that these people—whoever they are—these Macdonalds—had taken the oath.” The Master of Stair’s face was distorted with a savagery unpleasant to look upon; he stood motionless with his hand on his hip, gazing at her. “I would do it again,” she said. “Why should I be loyal to your blood-stained schemes?” Her husband threw up his hand as if to shut out the sight of her. “Keep away from me,” he cried. “For I know not what I may do.” “Ah, you can do no more to me than you have done,” she answered. “You have—” He suddenly caught her by the arm, checking what she would have said. “If you spy on me,” he said breathing fast, “if you blow my affairs abroad—oh, by God, madam, you will try me beyond endurance.” She went white and shivered, straining away. “Let go of me,” she whispered in a terrified voice. But his grip tightened, and as she looked up into his mad eyes, a horror seized her. “You want another murder on your name!” she cried. He loosened his hold and staggered back against the wall. “Oh, dear Heaven!” he said under his breath. “Dear Heaven—” He put his hand to his forehead, staring at her in a wild manner. “Ye are mad!” whispered Lady Dalrymple in awestruck tones. “Maybe,” he answered hoarsely. “Maybe—keep away from me—take care.” He strode away across the room and she heard the door bang heavily behind him. She stood still a moment, then, trembling, crossed to the desk. She thought of the contents of Tom Wharton’s letter, and smiled in mockery at herself. There was one could do what she could not for herself; she would write another letter in another spirit. Scandal! What did she care for scandal now!