Kitty became furious. She could not stand the fellow’s cool impudence and sarcasm.
“Harkee, Mr. Fortescue; if you aint out of this house by to-night’s dusk or afore then, I’ll tell Mr. Ashbrook, and he’ll pitch ’ee out; aye, and I’ll help ’im, too. D’ye see this arm? it’s bigger than your’n, and it’s stronger than your’n, and it’s thrashed a better man than you, for all your fine beard and cloth clothes and women’s scents.”
Mr. Fortescue was perfectly unmoved. He looked languidly at the speaker, and said, carelessly—
“You are a brave champion, I admit; but you are a silly girl, nevertheless—a very silly girl. I have no intention of acting badly towards your mistress; dismiss such a thought from your mind.”
“I won’t believe it. Be out of the house by the shank of the evening, or Mr. Ashbrook shall towel ’ee till your white skin’s black and blue, my London gentleman.”
He clenched his teeth, and approached her. Revelling in her vast strength, Kitty waited for him with her bare brown arms folded on her chest.
He poured a fierce whisper in her ear.
She became pale. “Oh, no, no,” she cried. “He is dead, and there has never been a breath agen him yet.”
He saw her weak point, and attacked her like a fiend.
“Don’t tell me,” he cried. “I know the whole history. Mr. Philip Jamblin, who was murdered in Larchgrove Lane, had another sweetheart besides the one who gave evidence on the trial. I know who that was.”