For a time he should go there but once a week.

When despair had chilled Dorothy to tameness he would go oftener.

Just then he must give her terrors opportunity to do their freezing work.
Storri could not have told whether he loved or hated Dorothy; he was only conscious of a fire-fed passion that consumed him.

He must possess her; or, if not that, then he must grind her into the earth.

He would torture her as he was tortured; he would blacken her by blackening Mr.
Harley; with her pride in the dirt, with disgrace upon her, where then was that man who would wed her?
The daughter of a forger--she would stain the name of wife! Richard might have her then; Storri would give her to him for a revenge! These were the mutterings of Storri as he went preyed upon by love and hate at once.
"If you do not love Miss Harley," said the flushed but logical San Reve, "why do you go there?
You say, 'Once a week!' Why once a week?
Why once a month?
Why at any time?
Storri, you do love her! And you come to me with lies!" This was on the evening following the scene that gave Storri such disquiet.
Storri, being spurred, and resolute to silence the San Reve, took that pertinacious beauty into his confidence, lying wherever it was inconvenient to tell the truth, and bragging always like a Cheyenne.
Storri strode about the San Reve's rooms and told his tale grandly.