"You'll be as good as your word, my charmer," whispered the executioner. " "Leave you!" echoed the ruffian, with a contemptuous laugh; "—not just yet. I should have thought my note cleared up everything. “Why, among other things, did I put my knuckles in his neck—deliberately to hurt him?” She tried to sound the humorous note. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters.
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