VII
As Mrs. Hamilton went out, there came brushing by her, bursting into the room, a stout, middle-aged man. It was Mr. Borrowby, in a terrible fury. He resembled a heavy, solid little dog. One could imagine the impact of his body against the furniture, how he might hurl himself about and always rebound unhurt. His talk was like barking, growling, and snapping, and his bloodshot eyes were fixed unwaveringly upon his enemy. He was terrific.
“Where’s my girl?” he bellowed.
“Don’t shout like that!” said Andrew. “I can’t stand it. I’m worn out.”
“I’ll wear you out! Where’s my girl?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie to me, you dirty, low-lived, degenerate hound! You vile, treacherous Bolshevist!”
“You’re going too far!” cried Andrew. “You’ll behave yourself, or I’ll put you out!”
“No, you won’t! I’ll have my daughter, or I’ll call in the police. Don’t you dare!” he shouted, shaking his fist in Andrew’s face. “Don’t you dare deny it! That young woman who opened the door for me told me Mavis was in here.”
It occurred to the desperate Andrew that the only possible course was that of complete candor.