Evidently elated by the success of his tactics, Seff paused for emphasis.
“What d’you mean butting into my affairs?” he demanded.
“This,” answered John.
With the word, he sent his right fist to a particular spot in the aesthetic’s neck.
The effect was startling. Seff’s head lopped, his eyes rolled, his body wavered and stretched its length upon the floor.
Fright-cries rose from the crush about the door; above them, a shrill demand in Catherine’s voice.
“John, are you mad?”
The first person to reach the prone figure was, however, without utterance. An equivocal look of dread and triumph was on Mary Hutton’s face as she knelt beside the man who was her employer and more; raised his head to her knee; held a bottle of smelling salts to his nose.
John Cabot’s attention returned to the cause of the bout.
She had wrapped the negligee closely around her and stood awaiting developments with dilated eyes—the model. On her cheek the mark of teeth showed redder than before. At his glance, she took a forward step, as if to thank him, then, embarrassed by the press of people around the door, stopped.