boldness he betray them, she found him a madman.

"I'll pull you right out of this window," he said, roughly, and then
with his hot face pressed against hers tried to accomplish the thing
he threatened.

"Go on--pull me to pieces!" replied Joan, in despair and pain. "I'd
be better off dead! And--you--hurt me--so!"

"Hurt you!" he whispered, hoarsely, as if he had never dreamed of
such possibility. And then suddenly he was remorseful. He begged her
to forgive him. His voice was broken, husky, pleading. His remorse,
like every feeling of his these days, was exaggerated, wild, with
that raw tinge of gold-blood in it. He made so much noise that Joan,
more fearful than ever of discovery, quieted him with difficulty.

"Does Kells see you often--these days?" asked Jim, suddenly.

Joan had dreaded this question, which she had known would inevitably
come. She wanted to lie; she knew she ought to lie; but it was
impossible.

"Every day," she whispered. "Please--Jim--never mind that. Kells is
good--he's all right to me. ... And you and I have so little time
together."

"Good!" exclaimed Cleve. Joan felt the leap of his body under her
touch. "Why, if I'd tell you what he sends that gang to do--you'd--
you'd kill him in his sleep."