George drew in the fearful finger. “That's as good as the truth—from you.” He rounded upon Mr. Marrapit. “You understand that. This has been my show.”
“A blackguard show,” pronounced Mr. Marrapit. “A monstrous and an impious show. A—”
“I don't want to hear that. Whatever it is you are the cause of it. If you had done your duty with my mother's money—”
A figure passed the open French windows along the path. Mr. Marrapit shouted “Fletcher!” The gardener entered.
“But you've betrayed your trust,” George shouted. He liked the fine phrase and repeated it. “You've betrayed your trust!”
Mr. Marrapit assumed his most collected air. “Silence. Silence, man of sin. Leave the house. Return thanks where thanks are due if I do not hound the law upon you. Take that girl. That miserable cat take. Hence!”
Mary got to her feet, put a hand on her George's arm. “Do come, dear.”
The wild young man shook her off. “I'll go when it pleases me!” he shouted at Mr. Marrapit.
“You shall be arrested,” Mr. Marrapit returned. He addressed Mary. “Place that cat in that basket Carry it away.”
George stood, heaving, panting, boiling for effective words, while his Mary did as bade. Awful visions of her George, fettered between policemen, trembled her pretty fingers. At last she had the basket strapped, raised it.