“If she has,” thought Frank, “she will stop me.” And he turned as if to call a waiter and ask for an officer.
Again Hilda clutched his arm, panting:
“Please don’t do it. It will do no good!”
Jones stood by, triumphant, smiling, sneering.
“Why don’t you call an officer, sir?” he asked.
“I ought to, you miserable whelp!” muttered Merry, baffled. “I ought to call one and demand that you be arrested for an attempt to murder me in the Maine woods three years ago.”
This gave the man a start, and he stared at Merry in astonishment.
“You?” he said. “Why, who the dickens are you? Hanged if I don’t believe you are the chap Dugan planned to blow up with powder! Yes, you are!”
“Right! And you are the miserable dog who aided him in that little piece of work. I am very sorry we met here. Had it been elsewhere, it would have given me great satisfaction to thrash you till you begged like a cur at my feet!”
Jones showed his teeth.