"Your own blood-brother—Alf."
Ernie tossed off his half-pint, rose, and went out.
He walked fast down the hill to the Goffs. People marked him as he passed, and the look upon his face: he did not see them.
Alf was in his garage, talking to a man. The man wore a burberry and a jaeger hat, with a hackle stuck in the riband. There was something jaunty and sword-like about him. Ern, as he drew rapidly closer, recognised him. It was Captain Royal. The conjunction of the two men at that moment turned his heart to steel.
He was walking; but he seemed to himself to be sliding over the earth towards his enemies, swift and stealthy as a hunting panther. As he went he clutched his fists and knew that they were damp and very cold.
When Ernie was within a hundred yards of him Royal, all unconscious of the presence of his enemy, swung out of the garage and walked off in his rapid, resolute way.
Alf went slowly up the steps into his office.
He was grinning to himself.
"'Alf a mo then!" said Ernie quietly, hard on his heels. "Just a word with you, Alf."
Alf turned, saw his brother crossing the yard, marked the danger-flare on his face, remembered it of old, and bolted incontinently, without shame, locking the house door behind him.