"Scowl if you like," he said, backing away instinctively, but still
nervously impertinent; "and keep your distance! If you've anything
further to say to me, write it." Then, growing bolder as Selwyn made no
offensive move, "Write to me," he repeated with a venomous smirk; "it's
safer for you to figure as _my_ correspondent than as my wife's
co-respondent--L-let go of me! W-what the devil are you d-d-doing--"
For Selwyn had him fast--one sinewy hand twisted in his silken collar,
holding him squirming at arm's length.
"M-murder!" stammered Mr. Ruthven.
"No," said Selwyn, "not this time. But be very, very careful after
this."
And he let him go with an involuntary shudder, and wiped his hands on
his handkerchief.
Ruthven stood quite still; and after a moment the livid terror died out
in his face and a rushing flush spread over it--a strange, dreadful
shade, curiously opaque; and he half turned, dizzily, hands outstretched
for self-support.
Selwyn coolly watched him as he sank on to the couch and sat huddled
together and leaning forward, his soft, ringed fingers covering his
impurpled face.
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