"But I am sorry," she exclaimed. "Our marriage must be annulled. It
was no marriage at all."
"Never," he exclaimed vehemently. "You are mine, Annabel, and nothing
shall ever make me give you up."
"But it is too late," she declared. "You have no right to hold me to a
bargain which on your side was a lie. I consented to become Mrs.
Meysey Hill--never your wife."
"What do you mean--by too late?" he demanded.
"There is some one else whom I care for!"
He laughed hardly.
"Tell me his name," he said, "and I promise that he shall never
trouble you. But you," he continued, moving imperceptibility a little
nearer to her, "you are mine. The angels in Heaven shall not tear you
from me. We leave this room together. I shall not part with you
again."
"No," she cried, "I will not. I will have nothing to do with you. You
are not my husband."
He came towards her with that in his face which filled her with blind
terror.
"You belong to me," he said fiercely; "the marriage certificate is in
my pocket. You belong to me, and I have waited long enough."
He stepped past her to the door and closed it. Then he turned with a
fierce movement to take her into his arms. There was a flash and a
loud report. He threw up his hand, reeled for a moment on his feet,
and collapsed upon the floor.
"Annabel;" he moaned. "You have killed me. My wife--killed me."
With a little crash the pistol fell from her shaking fingers. She
stood looking down upon him with dilated eyes. Her faculties seemed
for a moment numbed. She could not realize what she saw. Surely it was
a dream. A moment before he had been a strong man, she had been in his
power, a poor helpless thing. Now he lay there, a doubled-up mass,
with ugly distorted features, and a dark wet stain dripping slowly on
to the carpet. It could not be she who had done this. She had never
let off a pistol in her life. Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a
faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling. The smell of gunpowder
was strong in the room.
It was true. She had killed him. It was as much accident as anything,
but she had killed him. Once before--but that had been different. This
time they would call it murder.
She listened, listened intently for several minutes. People were
passing in the street below. She could hear their footsteps upon the
pavement. A hansom stopped a little way off. She could hear the bell
tinkle as the horse shook its head. There was no one stirring in the
flats. He himself had deadened the sound by closing the door. She
moved a little nearer to him.