“I don’t care whether Chei-feu is in China or in the moon,” said Walters obstinately. “You can’t come in, Mr. Brown! Mr. Trasmere is away—he’ll be away for a fortnight.”
“Oh, won’t I come in!”
The struggle was a brief one, for Walters was a man of powerful physique, and Wellington Brown was a man nearer to sixty than fifty. He was flung against the stone wall of the porch and might, in his bemused condition, have fallen had not Walters’ quick hand grabbed him back.
The stranger breathed noisily.
“I’ve killed men for that,” he said, jerkily, “shot ’em down like dogs! I’ll remember this, flunkey!”
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” said Walters, aggrieved that any onus for the unpleasantness should rest on him.
The stranger raised his hand haughtily.
“I will settle accounts with your master—remember that, lackey! He shall pay, by God!”
With drunken dignity, he walked unsteadily through the patch of garden that separated the house from the road, leaving Walters a puzzled man.