“She’s hit it, by Jove!” cried Hattersley, rearing his gun against the wall; and, stepping into the room, he took his precious friend by the arm, and attempted to drag him away. “Come, my lad,” he muttered; “true or false, you’ve no right to blame her, you know, nor him either; after what you said last night. So come along.”
There was something implied here that I could not endure.
“Dare you suspect me, Mr. Hattersley?” said I, almost beside myself with fury.
“Nay, nay, I suspect nobody. It’s all right, it’s all right. So come along, Huntingdon, you blackguard.”
“She can’t deny it!” cried the gentleman thus addressed, grinning in mingled rage and triumph. “She can’t deny it if her life depended on it!” and muttering some more abusive language, he walked into the hall, and took up his hat and gun from the table.
“I scorn to justify myself to you!” said I. “But you,” turning to Hattersley, “if you presume to have any doubts on the subject, ask Mr. Hargrave.”
At this they simultaneously burst into a rude laugh that made my whole frame tingle to the fingers’ ends.
“Where is he? I’ll ask him myself!” said I, advancing towards them.
Suppressing a new burst of merriment, Hattersley pointed to the outer door. It was half open. His brother-in-law was standing on the front without.
“Mr. Hargrave, will you please to step this way?” said I.