Jean eyed the other for a moment, contempt struggling with bewilderment for the mastery at the man's actions and incoherent outburst.
"You have perhaps been drinking," he said coldly. "I received no message until I entered the club here an instant ago. And I am not to be 'dug out,' Monsieur Valmain! You are using strange language. If you are drunk, apologise; otherwise—"
"Otherwise!"—the word came like a devil's laugh from Paul Valmain; and before Jean could move, or, taken by surprise, guard himself, the flat of Paul Valmain's hand had swung in a stinging blow across Jean's mouth. "You—hound!"
The blood came surging into Jean's face, and with a bound he had the other by the shoulders—and then, somehow, he found himself laughing—not merrily—laughing in a sort of contemptuous rage. He could take Paul Valmain with his own great strength and do with him what he pleased. But that was not the way a blow such as he had received was to be answered! And, anyway, what was the matter with the man? He must have lost his senses!
"You—hound!"—Paul Valmain was repeating hoarsely, his lips twitching in his passion. "I watched last night outside your studio. I watched, and oh, God!—I saw her enter."
Jean's hands dropped from the man's shoulders in blank amazement. Yes, certainly, the man was either drunk or mad! Certainly, he was not responsible for what he was saying.
"There was no one who entered my studio last night," he said almost pityingly.
"You liar!"—Paul Valmain was like a man beside himself, demented. "You liar—you liar—you liar! I saw her! I know now who this secret model is whose divine form you desecrate, you black-souled libertine! I saw her go in at two o'clock in the morning—and at daylight she had not come out again."
Jean shrugged his shoulders intolerantly. The man was quite out of his head from some cause or other, but that was no reason why he should be called upon to endure the other's irresponsible ranting.
"You poor fool!" he exclaimed irritably. "So you know who it is, do you? And what then? If it brings you such poignant, personal grief, why did you let her go in? Why did you not tell her that—"