“You needn’t beg; I mean it. I am neither drunk nor insane. You have said your say and I have said mine, and that settles it.”
The young lawyer took a step toward the door. But with his hand on the knob he stopped and faced about.
“So this is what Eben Grillage has done for you, is it?” he grated. “Like master, like man; with the doctrine of brute force for your code. I wouldn’t have believed it possible for the son of your father, David.”
“I have had the brute force all along, only I haven’t had sense enough to apply it,” was the surly rejoinder. “But it’s never too late to mend. Good-night—if you’re going.”
“I am going, but not before I have finished saying my say. For the present, and purely because I don’t consider the time fully ripe, I shall postpone asking your sister to marry me. But I refuse utterly and definitely to be bound by your tyrannical conditions.”
Shortly after Oswald had gone, David Vallory rummaged in Plegg’s kit-locker until he found a blued service revolver in its holster. He hung it under his coat by the shoulder-strap, and then dug further for a supply of cartridges. Thus armed, he took to the open again. The shock of the bullet bruise was still unsteadying him, and the bruise itself was hurting savagely, but he would not give up to it. At Brady’s Cut he found Plegg.
“The war is on,” he announced briefly, when he had taken the first assistant aside.
“You have seen Lushing?” Plegg asked.
“Yes; and he gave himself away: says he means to break us. We had it back and forth for a few minutes, and then he pulled a gun on me.”
“Good Lord!” said Plegg. “Where were you?”