“You will come with me?”
“I—will—come—with—you,” she echoed.
“By God, sir, she shan’t!” cried Vandermere. “Take your hands off her, sir, or you shall learn how mountebanks like yourself should be treated.”
Saton struck him full in the face, so that losing for a moment his balance upon the slippery floor, Vandermere nearly fell. In a moment he recovered himself, however. There was a struggle which did not last half-a-dozen seconds. He lifted Saton off his feet and shook him, till it seemed as though his limbs were cracking. Then he threw him away.
Rochester stepped forward to interfere.
“Enough of this, Vandermere,” he said sternly. “Remember that the fellow’s career is over. He may try to bluff it out, but he is done for. I have proofs enough to send him to prison a dozen times over.”
Saton rose slowly to his feet. Unconsciously his fingers straightened his tie. He knew very well that life—or rather the things which life meant for him—was over. He had only one desire—the desire of the born poseur—to extricate himself from his present position with something which might, at any rate, seem like dignity.
“Do I understand,” he asked Rochester, “that my departure from this house is forbidden?”
Rochester shook his head.