“Rats! You can tell me, Tom. I’m Griffiths, the safe man. It would set me up for life if I could do it.”
For the second time in one morning the medium’s Welsh strain took control.
“You’re an impudent, blasphemous rascal, Silas Linden. It’s men like you who come into our movement and give it a bad name. You should know me better than to think that I am a cheat. Get out of my house, you ungrateful rascal!”
“Not too much of your lip,” growled the ruffian.
“Out you go, or I’ll put you out, brother or no brother.”
Silas doubled his great fists and looked ugly for a moment. Then the anticipation of favours to come softened his mood.
“Well, well, no harm meant,” he growled, as he made for the door. “I expect I can make a shot at it without your help.” His grievance suddenly overcame his prudence as he stood in the doorway. “You damned, canting, hypocritical box-of-tricks. I’ll be even with you yet.”
The heavy door slammed behind him.
Mrs. Linden had run in to her husband.
“The ’ulking blackguard!” she cried. “I ’eard ’im. What did ’e want?”