“You disobedient, skulking beggar! What do you suppose I keep you here for at all? Get out of this at once, and do as I tell you. Do you hear, sir?”
Gerard’s face turned livid. The abominable insult of the tone and words was too much. He made a quick move forward, and things would have gone badly for Anstey. But the grip of muscular hands on his shoulders restrained him.
“Hallo, young fellow! What’s all the row about? Keep cool, now, I say. Keep cool!”
The advice was sorely needed, and the restraining touch had a salutary effect. Gerard was not going to throw himself into any vulgar promiscuous struggle, and collected himself with an effort. In the voices of the two men who had just entered, he recognised the two whose conversation he had overheard.
“I’ll keep cool, right enough,” he said. Then, addressing Anstey, “As for you, the sooner we part the better. I have stood your abominably offensive behaviour long enough, and I won’t stand it a day longer. As long as you behaved decently to me—which you did at first, no doubt for reasons of your own—I would have done anything for you. Now you have got upon the other tack I’ve had about enough of it. So we may as well part at once. Please hand me over what you owe me, and I’ll be off.”
“What I owe you—eh?” said Anstey, with an evil sneer. “But supposing I don’t owe you anything, my fine fellow? If you slink off without giving me proper notice, you forfeit every penny. How does that pan out—eh?”
Gerard’s countenance fell. There was truth in this, he feared.
“Well, never mind about that,” he said. “I’ll waive my claim. I’ll make you a present of these months of hard work. Just return me my twenty-five pounds, and we’ll cry quits.”
Anstey’s face was a study in well-simulated amazement—blank, bewildered amazement.
“Is the fellow drunk,” he said, “or only mad? Your what? I’m not sure if I quite heard. Your twenty-five thousand pounds, did you say?”