“Have we all gone mad, Jacob?” he asked. “Or have you developed an hysterical sense of humour? Why haven’t we locked the old man up and sent for the police?”
“It’s the young ’un,” Jacob explained. “I like ’em both. Besides, what’s the use of making a fuss? You’ve punished Hartwell, Felixstowe has settled with Dane Montague, and they’ve the Glasgow Daisy to deal with between them.”
“It’s the old man I can’t understand,” Dauncey confessed. “He sits there like a lay figure of courtesy and kindliness. To listen to him, one would believe that he would rather die than have a guest ill-used.”
Their host himself, accompanied by his son, came suddenly out of the breakfast room. For the first time, the former appeared discomposed. He came at once to Jacob and addressed him without preamble.
“Mr. Pratt,” he said, “I have only this moment properly understood the very disgraceful and unworthy attempt on the part of my two other guests to carry out a scheme of private vengeance upon you whilst subject to the incarceration necessitated by my plans.”
“You are referring,” Jacob observed coldly, “to the affair of the Glasgow Daisy?”
“I beg, sir,” the Marquis continued, “that you will acquit me of all complicity in that most unwarrantable and improper attempt to inflict punishment upon you. For your incarceration I accept the responsibility. That you were kept short of food was a natural adjunct to our enterprise. The other branch of the affair, however, humiliates me. I regret it extremely. I tender to you, Mr. Pratt, my apologies.”
Jacob bowed.
“I am very glad to hear,” he said, “that you were not a party to the most brutal portion of the plot. At the same time, to be quite frank with you, Marquis, I should have expected from you some expression of regret for your rather serious breach of hospitality. It is surely not a slight thing to starve and imprison an invited guest with the view of extorting money from him.”
The Marquis smiled tolerantly.