“Yes,” said I—“he is, at present, in London, and—” Glanville started as if he had been shot.
“No, no,” he exclaimed, wildly—“he died at Paris, from want—from starvation.”
“You are mistaken,” said I; “he is now Sir John Tyrrell, and possessed of considerable property. I saw him myself, three weeks ago.”
Glanville, laying his hand upon my arm, looked in my face with a long, stern, prying gaze, and his cheek grew more ghastly and livid with every moment. At last he turned, and muttered something between his teeth; and at that moment the door opened, and Thornton was announced. Glanville sprung towards him and seized him by the throat!
“Dog!” he cried, “you have deceived me—Tyrrell lives!”
“Hands off!” cried the gamester, with a savage grin of defiance—“hands off! or, by the Lord that made me, you shall have gripe for gripe!”
“Ho, wretch!” said Glanville, shaking him violently, while his worn and slender, yet still powerful frame, trembled with the excess of his passion; “dost thou dare to threaten me!” and with these words he flung Thornton against the opposite wall with such force, that the blood gushed out of his mouth and nostrils. The gambler rose slowly, and wiping the blood from his face, fixed his malignant and fiery eye upon his aggressor, with an expression of collected hate and vengeance, that made my very blood creep.
“It is not my day now,” he said, with a calm, quiet, cold voice, and then, suddenly changing his manner, he approached me with a sort of bow, and made some remark on the weather.
Meanwhile, Glanville had sunk on the sofa, exhausted, less by his late effort than the convulsive passion which had produced it. He rose in a few moments, and said to Thornton, “Pardon my violence; let this pay your bruises;” and he placed a long and apparently well filled purse in Thornton’s hand. That veritable philosophe took it with the same air as a dog receives the first caress from the hand which has just chastised him; and feeling the purse between his short, hard fingers, as if to ascertain the soundness of its condition, quietly slid it into his breeches pocket, which he then buttoned with care, and pulling his waistcoat down, as if for further protection to the deposit, he turned towards Glanville, and said, in his usual quaint style of vulgarity—“Least said, Sir Reginald, the soonest mended. Gold is a good plaister for bad bruises. Now, then, your will:—ask and I will answer, unless you think Mr. Pelham un de trop.”
I was already at the door, with the intention of leaving the room, when Glanville cried, “Stay, Pelham, I have but one question to ask Mr. Thornton. Is John Tyrrell still living?”