“Beware!” cautioned Rutley, “for what you say you must prove in a court of law.”
Defiant, the girl spoke, her enunciation clear and faultless. “His name is Philip Rutley, and he is masquerading as my Lord Beauchamp for fraudulent and unlawful purposes.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed Rutley, sarcastically. “Delightfully refreshing, gentlemen.”
“Oh!” came from Hazel, and then, as if doubting the announcement, exclaimed: “But the color of Rutley’s hair is on the pumpkin order.”
“When the dye is washed out it will be on the pumpkin order again,” laughed Sam.
“He of the investment company?” questioned Mrs. Harris, with a puzzled expression of countenance.
“The very same chap, Auntie,” said Sam.
“Dear me, such ingratitude!” and Mrs. Harris looked disgusted. “Why, the rascal promised never to return if we would not prosecute him.”
“He, he, he, he, how very funny,” derisively laughed Rutley, in that high-pitched, screechy falsetto key he was so well trained in, and at times he nervously stroked his Vandyke beard.
“I shall at once bring an action at law against you for malicious libel,” upon which he started to pass Mr. Harris. His purpose was understood and frustrated by Sam, who promptly seized him by the collar. “I guess not!”