white, stern face froze the words on his lips. Lord Atherton waved his
hand.

"I want those letters, sir!" he cried, in a voice of thunder--"those
letters that you have, holding as a sword over the head of my wife!"

"What if I refuse to give them?" replied Allan.

"Then I shall take them from you. I have read this precious epistle, in
which you threaten to show them to me. Now bring them here."

"I am not accustomed, my lord, to this treatment."

Lord Atherton's face flushed, his eyes seemed to flame fire.

"Not a word; bring them to me! You have traded for the last time upon a
woman's weakness and fears. I will read the letters, then I will tell
you what I think of you."

"Better tell your wife," sneered the other, "what you think of her."

"My wife is a lady," was the quiet reply--"a lady for whom I have the
greatest honor, respect and esteem. Your lips simply sully her name, and
I refuse to hear it from you."

"She did not always think so," was the sullen reply. "If you had not
stepped in and robbed me, she would have been my wife now."

The white anger of that face, and the convulsive movement of the hand
that held the heavy whip, might have warned him.