Before his blow could fall, he was
sent spinning. Rudolph, his cheeks on fire, darted past and dealt, full
force, a clumsy backhand sweep of the arm. Light and quick as a leopard,
Chantel was on foot, erect, and even while his chair crashed on the
floor, had whipped out a handkerchief.
"You are right, Mr. Heywood," he said, stanching his lips, in icy
composure. His eyes held an odd gleam of satisfaction. "You are right.
We are not like ourselves, at present. I will better ask Mr. Sturgeon to
see your friend to-morrow morning. This morning, rather."
Not without dignity, he turned, stepped quickly to the stairs, saluted
gravely, and went down.
"No, no!" panted Nesbit, wrestling with Rudolph. "Easy on, now! Let you
go? No fear!"
Heywood wrenched the captive loose, but only to shake him violently, and
thrust him into a chair.
"Be quiet, you little ass!" he scolded. "I've a great mind, myself, to
run after the bounder and kick him. But that sort of thing--you did
enough. Who'd have thought? You young spitfire! Chantel took you on,
exactly as he wanted."
The fat sleeper continued to snore. Wutzler came slinking back from his
refuge in the shadows.
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