"Hum!" said the Viscount, frowning. "I wish I'd never seen this
cursed paper, Bev!" and as he spoke he crumpled it up and threw it
into the great fireplace. "Where in the name of mischief did you get
it?"
"It was in the corner yonder," answered Barnabas. "I also found this."
And he laid a handsomely embossed coat button on the table.
"It has been wrenched off you will notice."
"Yes," nodded the Viscount, "torn off! Do you think--"
"I think," said Barnabas, putting the button back into his pocket,
"that Mistress Clemency's tears are accounted for--"
"By God, Beverley," said the Viscount, an ugly light in his eyes,
"if I thought that--!" and the hand upon the table became a fist.
"I think that Mistress Clemency is a match for any man--or brute,"
said Barnabas, and drew his hand from his pocket.
Now the Viscount's fist was opening and shutting convulsively, the
breath whistled between his teeth, he glanced towards the door, and
made as though he would spring to his feet; but in that moment came
a diversion, for Barnabas drew his hand from his pocket, and as he
did so, something white fluttered to the floor, close beside the
Viscount's chair.
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