"He didn't understand or remember much. The next day out of curiosity I called at the house and asked him if he could sew. He was amused. He said that he had never used a needle in his life, his hands were too big."
Beryl sat back with a sigh. "It doesn't seem—human," she said.
The doctor had opened his mouth to reply when there was a crash in the hall outside and the sound of a high, aggressive voice. Another second and the door was thrown violently open and the man lurched in. He was hatless and his frock coat was covered with the coffee-colored stains of wet mud. His cravat was awry and the ends hung loose over his unbuttoned waist-coat. A stray lock of black hair hung over his narrow forehead. He strode into the center of the room and with legs apart, one hand on his hip and the other caressing his long, brown beard, he surveyed the company with a sardonic smile.
"Hail! Thieves and brother bandits!" he said thickly. He spoke with a slight lisp. "Hail! Head devil and chief of the tribe! Hail! Helen—"
Steppe was on his feet, his head thrust forwards, his shoulders bent. Maxton saw him and started. There was something feline in that crouching attitude. "You drunken fool! How dare you come here, huh!"
Mr. Moropulos snapped his fingers contemptuously. "I come, because I have the right," he said with drunken gravity, "who will deny the prime minister the right of calling upon the king?" he bowed and nearly lost his balance, recovering by the aid of a chairback.
"Go to my study, Moropulos, I will come out with you," Steppe had gained control of himself, but the big frame was trembling with pent rage.
"Study—bah! Here is my study! Hail, doctor, man of obnoxious draughts, hail, stranger, whoever you are—where's the immaculate Ronnie? Flower of English chivalry and warrior of a million flights—huh?"
He bellowed his imitation of Steppe's grunt and chuckled with laughter.
"Now, listen, confederates, I have done with you all. I am going to live honest. Why? I will tell you—"