The elevator-man, never having known the spark of breeding, could not have anticipated Carey's move. The revolver was wrested from him, and he was on hands and knees, hurled there by Carey's punch, without quite knowing what had happened, or why.
Carey handed the revolver to his wife. She accepted it silently. The husband turned to Garland.
"Get out," he said.
His voice was quiet. All the hysteria, all the madness had disappeared from it. It had the ring of command that might always have been there had the man run true to his creed. He was a weakling, but weakness might have been conquered.
Garland scrambled to his feet. Sidewise, fearful lest Carey strike him again, his opened mouth expressing more bewilderment than anger, he sidled past Carey to the door, which the latter opened. He bounded swiftly through, and Carey closed the door. The patter of the man's feet was heard for a moment on the veranda. Then he was gone.
"Thank you, Don," said Sophie quietly.
It was, Clancy felt, like a scene from some play. It was unreal, unbelievable, only—it was also dreadfully real.
"Don't suppose the details interest you, Sophie?" said Carey.
She shook her head.
"I'm sorry, Don."