The hot flush died out of Piers' face; he went slowly white. But the blaze of wrath in his eyes leaped higher. For the moment he looked scarcely sane.
"If you don't clear out of my path, I shall throw you!" he said, speaking very quietly, but with a terrible distinctness that made misunderstanding impossible.
Crowther, level-browed and determined, remained where he was. "I don't think you will," he said.
"Don't you?" A faint smile of derision twisted Piers' lips. He gathered up the coat he carried, and threw it across his shoulder.
Crowther watched him with eyes that never varied. "Piers!" he said.
"Well?" Piers looked at him, still with that slight, grim smile.
Crowther stood like a rock. "I will let you pass, sonny, if you can tell me—on your word of honour as a gentleman—that the tables are all you have in your mind."
Piers tossed back his head with the action of an angry beast. "What the devil has that to do with you?"
"Everything," said Crowther.
He moved at last, quietly, massively, and took Piers by the shoulders.
"My son," he said, "I know where you are going. I've been there myself.
But in God's name, lad, don't—don't go! There are some stains that never
come out though one would give all one had to be rid of them."