“Quite so. He’ll be here by-and-by. Meanwhile, kindly leave my office.”
“I shall leave when I choose,” was the defiant rejoinder.
“Ah, indeed!” Then, raising his voice, “Hey! Jan Kat! Come in here.”
There was a shuffling of feet. The native constable, who had been roosting in the son on the court-house steps, appeared at the door.
“Turn Mr Sonnenberg out of my office.”
Just those few words—quietly spoken—no further appeal to leave. Roden prepared to go on with his work again.
“Come, sir, you must go,” said the constable.
Sonnenberg was speechless with rage. He glared first at Roden, then at the stalwart Fingo, as though he had some thoughts of assaulting one or both of them. To be turned out of the room ignominiously, and by a native! It was too much of an outrage.
“Come, sir, you must leave the office,” repeated the constable more peremptorily.
Then Sonnenberg opened his mouth and there gurgled forth weird and sonorous German oaths mingled with full-flavoured English blasphemies, all rolling out so thick and fast as to tread upon each other’s heels and well-nigh to choke the utterer. In the midst of a forced breathing space a voice—quick and stern—was heard to exclaim—