Macheson took a step forward.
“Look here,” he said, “I shouldn’t try that on if I were you. I am stronger than you are, and I have studied boxing. I don’t care about fighting, but I am going to leave this room—at once.”
“The devil you are,” Hurd cried, striking at him. “Take that, you canting hypocrite.”
Macheson evaded the blow with ease. Exactly how it happened he never knew, but Hurd found himself a few seconds later on his back—and alone in the room. He sprang up and rushed after Macheson, who was already in the front garden. His attack was so violent that Macheson had no alternative. He knocked him into the middle of his rose bushes, and opened the gate, to find himself face to face with the last person in the world whom he expected to see in Thorpe. It was Wilhelmina herself who was a spectator of the scene!
“Mr. Macheson,” she said gravely, “what is the meaning of this?”
Macheson was taken too completely by surprise to frame an immediate answer. Stephen Hurd rose slowly to his feet, dabbing his mouth with his handkerchief.
“A little disagreement between us,” he said, with an evil attempt at a smile. “We will settle it another time.”
“You will settle it now,” the lady of the Manor said, with authority in her tone. “Shake hands, if you please. At once! I cannot have this sort of thing going on in the village.”
Macheson held out his hand without hesitation.
“The quarrel was not of my seeking,” he said. “I bear you no ill-will, Hurd. Will you shake hands?”