There was a sort of grim, mirthless humor about Bart that made Defarge uneasy.
“You have no right to lock my door and put the key in your pocket!” snarled the French youth.
“That may be true, but I’ve done it. I want to have a little talk with you, and I do not propose to have that talk interrupted, even though you may get noisy and yell for assistance.”
There was a threat in this, and Defarge retreated behind the table that stood in the center of the room.
“What’s your game?” he demanded. “Are you playing the highwayman or the house-robber?”
“Thank you; I do not travel with your class in society.”
Still there was a look in Bart’s eyes that made Defarge think himself in danger. Usually, Hodge was excitable, but now he seemed strangely cool, which gave him an air of menace.
Defarge glanced quickly round in search of some weapon with which to defend himself.
“Sit down!” commanded Hodge. “It won’t do you a bit of good to raise a rumpus.”
“Now, what in the name of the Old Harry do you want?” panted Bertrand, beginning to get angry himself.