“Leave Miss Leicester alone. Find a new way of getting the money you need so badly.”
Newton laughed.
“My dear fellow, that’s a stupid thing to say. Neither Oberzohn nor I are exactly poor.”
“You’re bankrupt, both of you,” said Manfred quietly. “You are in the position of gamblers when the cards have run against you for a long time. You have no reserve, and your expenses are enormous. Find another way, Newton—and tell your sister”—he paused by the door, looking down into the white lining of his silk hat—“I’d like to see her at Curzon Street to-morrow morning at ten o’clock.”
“Is that an order?” asked Newton sarcastically.
Manfred nodded.
“Then let me tell you,” roared the man, white with passion, “that I take no orders for her or for me. Got swollen heads since you’ve had your pardon, haven’t you? You look out for me, Manfred. I’m not exactly harmless.”
He felt the pressure of the doctor’s foot upon his and curbed his temper.
“All right,” he growled, “but don’t expect to see Joan.”
He added a coarse jest, and Manfred raised his eyes slowly and met his.