The voice in which he made this threat was gruff and aggressive. As he delivered it, he closed his umbrella and swung it like a club.
"A nous deux, maintenant," mused Roland.
"And not only that—if you ever dare to enter that house again I will expose you."
"Oh, will you, though?" answered Roland. The tone he assumed was affectedly civil. "Well now, my fat friend, let me tell you this: I intend to enter that house, as you call it, to-morrow at precisely five o'clock. Let me pick you up on the way, and we can go together."
"Roland Mistrial, as sure as there is a God in heaven I will have you in the Tombs."
"See here, put up your umbrella. You are not in a condition to expose yourself—let alone anyone else. You are daft, Thorold—that is what is the matter with you. If you persist in chattering Tombs at me in a snow-storm I will answer Bloomingdale to you. You frightened me once, I admit; but I am ten years older now, and ten years less easily scared. Besides, what drivel you talk! You haven't that much to go on."
As Roland spoke his accent changed from affected suavity to open scorn. "Now stop your bluster," he continued, "and listen to me. Because you happen to find me in there, you think I have intentions on the heiress—"
"It's a lie! She—"
"There, don't be abusive. I know you want her for yourself, and I hope you get her. But please don't think that I mean to stand in your way."
"I should say not."