She was the inspiration for it
all, the goal and reward toward which he struggled.
"Betty!" the single word fell softly from his lips. He stepped
into the room, closing the door as he did so.
The girl's eyes were dilating with a mute horror, for by some
swift intuitive process of the mind, which asked nothing of the
logic of events, but dealt only with conclusions, Murrell stood
revealed as Norton's murderer. Perhaps he read her thoughts, but
he had lived in his degenerate ambitions until the common
judgments or the understanding of them no longer existed for him.
That Betty had loved Norton seemed inconsequential even; it was a
memory to be swept away by the force of his greater passion. So
he watched her smilingly, but back of the smile was the menace of
unleashed impulse.
"Can't you find some word of welcome for me, Betty?" he asked at
length, still softly, still with something of entreaty in his
tone.
"Then it was you--not Tom--who had me brought here!" She could
have thanked God had it been Tom, whose hate was not to be feared
as she feared this man's love.
"Tom--no!" and Murrell laughed. "You didn't think I'd give you
up? I am standing with a halter, about my neck, and all for your
sake--who'd risk as much for love of you?" he seemed to expand
with savage pride that this was so, and took a step toward her.
"Don't come near me!" cried Betty. Her eyes blazed, and she
looked at him with' loathing.
"You'll learn to be kinder," he exulted.
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