“What have I got to say?” repeated Fordham, dropping out his words with a steely deliberation. “The question ought rather to come from me. No; stop! Stand back!” he added, warningly, as the other made towards him, a move whose nature was unmistakably aggressive. “You’ll do no good in that line, I promise you. Why remember, boy, all the best tricks you know with your hands I taught you, and there remain a great many better ones for you to learn. I’m the best man of the two in that way.”
None knew this better than Philip, tall, powerful, and in good training as he himself was. The other was a splendid boxer, and all wire and whipcord. He would stand no chance against him.
“Will you meet me in the old-fashioned way, then?” he said, with difficulty restraining his rage. “We can cross the Channel and exchange a few shots. What! You won’t!” for the other had burst into a derisive chuckle. “Hang it, Fordham, you may pretend to laugh, but I never thought you were such an infernal coward!”
“You may well talk about hanging,” replied Fordham, with that same sardonic chuckle. “Do you know, you young fool—do you know that all this time you have been bellowing out enough to hang you a dozen times over in this happy contingency for which you are thirsting? Do you know, also, that in the event of my being the one to go under, one single word construable into an arrangement of the meeting, uttered by you over here would be enough to hang you as surely as if you had cut a man’s throat to steal his watch?”
It was Philip’s turn to look slightly foolish now; and in spite of his anger and misery he did so—such is the power of a master-mind and a sarcastic tongue.
“Just do me the favour to open that door suddenly, will you?” went on Fordham. “Ah! The coast’s clear, is it? Well, then”—as the door was shut again—“if you really mean business, this is how you ought to have put it: ‘Fordham, old man, are you really going to St. Jean-de-Luz this week or next? Because if so I might join you there.’”
Philip started, and stared. Then it dawned on him.
“And where the deuce is St. Jean-de-Luz?” he said.
“About equidistant between Biarritz and the Spanish border, and very near both,” was the tranquil answer. “Well, I was going to Les Avants, but if you prefer it I will alter my destination. Do you prefer it?” with a keen glance into the other’s eyes.
“I understand,” said Philip, slowly. “Yes, certainly, I do prefer it.”