Captain Spicer leaped a step back, and looked in amaze at the Baronet's earnest countenance.
"Egad!" thought he to himself, "Verney's in the right of it, the fellow's mad. Ha! ha!" said he aloud, "very good, Sir Jasper, very good. A little conundrum, eh? 'Rat me, I love a riddle." He glanced towards the door. Sir Jasper still advanced upon him as he retreated.
"I asked you, sir," he demanded with an ominous rise in his voice, "if you wore your own hair?" ("The fellow looks frightened," he argued internally—"'tis monstrous suspicious!")
"I," cried the Captain, with his back against the door fumbling for the handle as he stood. "Fie, fie, who wears a peruke now-a-days, unless it be your country cousin? He, he! How warm the night is!"
Sir Jasper had halted opposite to him and was rolling a withering eye over his countenance.
"His mealy face is so painted," said the unhappy baronet to himself, "that devil take him if I can guess the colour of the fellow." His hand dropped irresolute by his side.
Beads of perspiration sprang on Captain Spicer's forehead.
"If ever I carry a challenge to a madman again!" thought he.
"Your hair is very well powdered," said Sir Jasper.
"Oh, it is so, it is as you say—Poudre à la Maréchale, sir," said the Captain, while under his persevering finger the door-handle slowly turned. An aperture yawned behind him; in a twinkling his slim figure twisted, doubled, and was gone.