Von Hillern burst into a derisive laugh.
“You are going yourself,” he said. “You are a worn-out old roue, but you are mad about her yourself in your senile way.”
“You should respect my age and decrepitude,” answered Coombe. “A certain pity for my gray hairs would become your youth. Shall we turn here or will you return to your hotel by some other way?” He felt as if the man might a burst a blood vessel if he were obliged to further restrain himself.
Von Hillern wheeled at the corner and confronted him.
“There will come a day—” he almost choked.
“Der Tag? Naturally,” the chill of Coombe’s voice was a sound to drive this particular man at this particular, damnably-thwarted moment, raving mad. And not to be able to go mad! Not to be able!
“Swine of a doddering Englishman! Who would envy you—trembling on your lean shanks—whatsoever you can buy for yourself. I spit on you—spit!”
“Don’t,” said Coombe. “You are sputtering to such an extent that you really are, you know.”
Von Hillern whirled round the corner.
Coombe, left alone, stood still a moment.