“I find in Miss Brooke an expert tennis player,” he said, addressing Mrs. Harris, who was leaning forward, her hands resting on the rail, staring at him.
“It’s an outrage, sir! A damned outrage!” explosively exclaimed Mr. Harris, who was unable to control his indignation.
Still unperturbed, Rutley turned to Mr. Harris and said: “I quite agree with you, Sir, for the scandal is deplorable, and Corway should be punished.” Turning to Mrs. Harris, he continued:
“Indeed, Mrs. Harris, you Americans seem to excel in most everything where skill and brains are essential.”
There was not a flaw or tremor in his voice to betray an uneasy mind or prescience of a coming storm. It was then, however, he realized that something was wrong, for he noticed that they were looking coldly at him. Slowly drawing himself up with a haughty bearing, he carefully adjusted the monocle in his left eye and turned slowly about as he stared at each of them, and said in slow, sharp, biting accents:
“It’s deuced—draughty—don’t—che—know!”
“Yes, quite chilly, isn’t it, old chappie! I guess so!” declared Sam, patronizingly.
“I demand, sir, the return of ten thousand dollars that you swindled me out of yesterday,” said Mr. Harris, with indignation flushing his face.
“And I demand, in the name of the law, ten thousand dollars that you stole from—a—George Golda, while in the scow-dwelling night before last,” said Sam.
Still unperturbed, Rutley merely shifted his eyes from one to the other without moving his head or a muscle of his body, much in the manner of an automaton, and answered with a drawl: