“Upon my word, Peace, you conduct yourself in a strange manner. Has anyone offended you?”
“Never you mind whether they have or not; you are lurking about here for no good purpose. Where have you come from?”
“Well, from the house of a friend of mine.”
“You are full of friends—everybody’s your friend, I s’pose. Is your friend’s name Maitland?”
“You are quite correct in your surmise—it is.”
“I thought so, and I suppose, if I may make so bold as to inquire, it is not so much the widow who has attracted you to the house as the daughter?” This was said in a tone of bitter irony.
“What if I refuse to answer impertinent questions?”
“You will refuse. You dare not answer them—you’re a mischief-making, lying, canting humbug. It is you, and none but you, who have poisoned the mind of Miss Maitland against me—Charles Peace—do you hear?”
Tom Gatliffe was perfectly astounded. As Peace gave utterance to these last words his countenance seemed to darken with the darkness of a curse.
“Look here,” said Gatliffe, in a more serious tone. “For the life of me I do not understand what you mean; but I tell you frankly that I am not disposed to be insulted and abused—the more so since I have not by word or deed done you the slightest harm.”