A white piece of cloth, crumpled and soiled, lay on a gray blanket.

He took it up swiftly, stuck it into the front of his heavy coat and turned again toward the fireplace.

With his back to Lawler he swiftly examined the cloth he had picked up.

It was a handkerchief--a woman's--and in one corner of it was an embroidered monogram containing the letters "D.W." It was Della's--he had seen that and others like it, many times, in her hands and at the Two Diamond, on the wash line.
For a long time, with his back to Lawler, Warden fought to control the terrible jealousy that the finding of the handkerchief had aroused in him.

His face was contorted with passion; his eyes were aflame with it.
He had hated Lawler before; now the passion was a malignant poison that burned, through his veins like fire.
He did not trust himself to speak--his voice would have betrayed him.