she knew it, and that in the coldness of his intention lay the inflexibility of her peril.
"I too would drink." He lifted up his own cup. "Ah!" he exclaimed, putting it quickly down again, "I see that you have sipped from your cup—your lips have blessed its rim." Standing behind her, he slipped his hands slowly about her neck, took her cup in them, and lifted it over her head, and faced her. "Let me also drink from the cup that has touched your lovely lips."
With a cruel look of mock love—to torment her even this little more, and in no way because he suspected the contents of either cup—with a slow look into her terror-dilating eyes, he slowly drained the cup. And Florence Gregory watched him, motionless, horror-stricken—scarcely realizing that he had given her her release—by a way it had not occurred to her even to attempt.
"So," Wu said, putting down the cup, "I have paid you the highest compliment. For I do not like your sugar or your cream. Indeed, I cannot imagine how any one can spoil the delicious beverage" His voice broke on the word. Something gurgled in his throat. "It was even nastier than I thought," he whispered hoarsely.
Suddenly he reeled. He staggered and caught at the table's edge. Had he gone drunk, he wondered, with the intoxication of his smothered, inexorable rage? The room was spinning like a top plaything. His head ached. He thought a vein must burst. The room was turning more maddeningly now—like a dervish at the climax of his dance. And he was spinning too—not with the room but in a counter-circle. He tottered to a stool and sank on to it, his face horribly contorted with pain.
Mrs. Gregory moaned, half in fear for herself, half
