"I thought—" Antonio began.
"Thought? You thought? Who are you to begin thinking? For two pins I'd give you a damned good hiding."
Antonio's face became as white as a sheet. There was no longer a monk in the room: only a man. He faced his employer with eyes which made him quail. But he did not lose his head. Suddenly he wheeled round and drew from a brass bowl on the table two of the tiny pins which were used to attach enclosures to letters.
"Here are your two pins, Senhor," he said, flinging them with infinite scorn at Crowberry's feet. "Now give me my damned good hiding."
He fell back two paces with his left arm raised in guard and his right fist clenched to return blow for blow. But Mr. Crowberry did not take up the challenge. He blenched; blinked; gasped; smirked; edged away; and finally blurted out peevishly:
"Leave the room. Go out of my office at once."
Antonio brushed him aside and stepped into the street. His heart was still hot with anger, and he still smarted under the insults. With long strides he hastened mechanically along Piccadilly towards Apsley House, which had come to be his favorite walk. But he had hardly reached the old French Embassy when there was a turmoil behind him, and voices crying "Stop!" He turned round and saw Mr. Crowberry's office-boy and one of the junior clerks.
"Mr. Crowb'ry, 'e ses will yer come back at once."
"Did Mr. Crowberry say nothing else?"
"No, sir."