No reply, but Pyke shifted one leg uneasily.
"You were watching my friend, Lord Blair. I am right, I think? Silence denotes assent. Thanks," suavely; "and why were you watching him?"
Pyke, tortured as much by the tone as the question, growled out an imprecation under his breath.
"Shall I tell you? Because you are anxious to get a little revenge for that beating he gave you. Am I right? Thanks again. I am good at guessing, you see. And as you can't pay him back in a fair stand-up fight you are hoping later for an opportunity to give him one in the back. Y—es," slowly and suavely, "I think that is the whole case in a nutshell. Now, my friend, you are a fool."
Pyke raised his eyes and scowled evilly, and Austin Ambrose shook his head and smiled.
"No use scowling, my friend. I know what you are feeling, and I can sympathize with you; I can indeed. It is so unpleasant to be caught, isn't it? And it is so tempting to see me sitting here without even a stick, and to know that you could dispose of me so easily, if my friend with the big fists that you felt so lately were not within call."
Pyke's face grew livid, and he grasped his stick till the veins started out like string in his wiry and sunburnt hands.
"Curse you!" he snarled at last. "Who are you, and what do you want?"
"Gently," said his tormentor. "One question at a time, and though you don't put them politely, I'll give you a true answer. My name is Ambrose—Austin Ambrose. Say it over to yourself once or twice, and you won't forget it. And what do I want? Well, I want a strong, active young ruffian like you, a man who has pluck enough to remember an injury and burns to pay it back. And that's your case again, isn't it?"