“Oh, confound you!”
“Don’t make a scene, it is quite unnecessary.”
Sir Algernon laughed rather wildly, and played his last card.
“You won’t be able to take that high line much longer, my good fellow!” he snarled, fumbling in his pocket-book. “I’ll just refresh your memory on the subject of the expressions used by you in that precious letter before it—goes to press!”
St. Quentin’s tone was calm enough. “Do.”
Sir Algernon drew out the dirty envelope on which “Re Duncombe” was scrawled in his own hand, and pulled from it a letter in the cramped left-hand writing.
“Here we are. Some of these expressions will look rather fine in print, I fancy; the Society papers will have a treat. Why——”
A violent exclamation burst from him, as he stared wildly, first at the letter in his hand, then at the envelope, and back at the letter again.
“What is it?” asked St. Quentin.