Again Lionel tapped him on the shoulder. He was smiling. Harry came back to his senses at sight of that odious smile.
“Well, sir, and what of it?” he cried, measuring Ratcliffe with a defiant look.
“What of it? More than you think.—What were you about, young man,” his voice sunk to a whisper, “when you invited Rakehell Rockhurst to come and view your lady?”
“Rakehell Rockhurst…!” echoed Harry in utter amazement. Then, fury leaping to his voice and eye, he wheeled fiercely upon Ratcliffe: “Of whom, sir, are you speaking?”
The latter proceeded, unmoved save for a trifle more of emphasis in his silky tone:—
“Did you not know that a single breath of his lips is enough to tarnish the virtue of the purest woman in England?”
The younger man fell back a step, and measured the speaker:—
“Of whom are you talking, I have asked you.”
There was more self-control in his demeanour, but more danger. It was tense with menace, like a bent bow. A second Ratcliffe paused. He had not given the lad credit for so much real manliness. The more reason for him to precipitate the crisis for which he was working; the crisis which might rid him of two rivals at once—for the courtly Rockhurst was indeed a rival to be reckoned with. And there was no affectation in the passion with which he now broke out:—