“You ’as the blarsted nerve to call me a fool. You ’as——”
There was not much room to duck, but Fulke did it.
As the fist sang over his shoulder, he landed a vicious punch.
The porter staggered backwards. Then the porcelain rim caught him under the hocks, and it was all over.
As he fell into the bath, George slid out of the room and, finding a key in the door, turned it gratefully.
A moment later he was streaking up Sloane Street. . . .
It was, perhaps, ten minutes later that Julia, frantic, ran Hubert Challenger to earth.
“Hubert, where have you been?”
“Hurlingham,” said Hubert calmly. “How lovely you look.”