"
Ingolby winced, for the man's words rang true. A cloud came over his
face, but he said nothing. Jethro saw the momentary advantage. "You did
not know?" he asked. "She did not tell you she was made my wife those
years ago? She did not tell you she was the daughter of the Romany King?
So it is, you see, she is afraid to tell the truth."
Ingolby's knitted bulk heaved with desire to injure. "Your wife--you
melodious sinner! Do you think such tomfoolery has any effect in this
civilized country? She is about as much your wife as I am your brother.
Don't talk your heathenish rot here. I said I'd help you to get your own,
because you played the fiddle as few men can play it, and I owe you a lot
for that hour's music; but there's nothing belonging to Gabriel Druse
that belongs to you, and his daughter least of all. Look out--don't sit
on the fiddle, damn you!"
The Romany had made a motion as if to sit down on the chair where the
fiddle was, but stopped short at Ingolby's warning. For an instant Jethro
had an inclination to seize the fiddle and break it across his knees. It
would be an exquisite thing to destroy five thousand dollars' worth of
this man's property at a single wrench and blow. But the spirit of the
musician asserted itself before the vengeful lover could carry out his
purpose; as Ingolby felt sure it would.
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