"And how are you proposing to do that, M. de St. Genis?" asked the Englishman with perfect equanimity.
"Like this," cried Maurice, whose exasperation and fury had increased every moment, as the other man's assurance waxed more insolent and more cool.
"Like this!" he cried again, as he sprang at his enemy's throat.
A past master in the art of self-defence, Clyffurde—despite his wounded arm—was ready for the attack. With his left on guard he not only received the brunt of the onslaught, but parried it most effectually with a quick blow against his assailant's jaw.
St. Genis—stunned by this forcible contact with a set of exceedingly hard knuckles—fell back a step or two, his foot struck against some object on the floor, he lost his balance and measured his length backwards across the bed.
"You abominable thief . . . you . . ." he cried, choking with rage and with discomfiture as he tried to struggle to his feet.
But this he at once found that he could not do, seeing that a pair of firm and muscular knees were gripping and imprisoning his legs, even while that same all-powerful left hand with the hard knuckles had an unpleasant hold on his throat.
"I should have tried some other method, M. de St. Genis, had I been in your shoes," came in irritatingly sarcastic accents from his calm antagonist.
Indeed, the insolent rogue did not appear in the least overwhelmed by the enormity of his crime or by the disgrace of being so ignominiously found out. From his precarious position across the bed St. Genis had a good view of the rascal's finely knit figure, of his earnest face, now softened by a smile full of kindly humour and good-natured contempt.
An impartial observer viewing the situation would certainly have thought that here was an impudent villain vanquished and lying on his back, whilst being admonished for his crimes by a just man who had might as well as right on his side.