Hill sat up on the pavement and mopped the blood from his cheek. Ennison’s signet-ring had cut nearly to the bone.
“What the devil do you mean by coming for me like that?” Ennison exclaimed, glowering down upon him. “Serves you right if I’d cracked your skull.”
Hill looked up at him, an unkempt, rough-looking object, with broken collar, tumbled hair, and the blood slowly dripping from his face.
“What do you mean, hanging round with my wife?” he answered fiercely.
Ennison looked down on him in disgust.
“You silly fool,” he said. “I know nothing about your wife. The young lady I was with is not married at all. Why don’t you make sure before you rush out like that upon a stranger?”
“You were with my wife,” Hill repeated sullenly. “I suppose you’re like the rest of them. Call her Miss Pellissier, eh? I tell you she’s my wife, and I’ve got the certificate in my pocket.”
“I don’t know who you are,” Ennison said quietly, “but you are a thundering liar.”
Hill staggered to his feet and drew a folded paper from his pocket.