And for an infinitesimal fraction of time it seemed to those watching him that he was cowed; terrifyingly cowed.
"Your humor," he shrugged his shoulders, endeavoring to pass the thing off as flippantly as possible; "your humor is bizarre, Mr. Manners. I spoke but of that which we all know exists. Surely there is no harm in speaking of what we all recognize!"
Manners' voice rang out clearly, in surprising sternness.
"We all know what exists in this world. We know that greater than all else is faith. As long as you speak before those who know what real goodness is, who believe in it, there is no harm done! I hardly think this is the first time you've tried to impress evil on people—The reason for that's easily understood. But, thank God." His tone vibrated with earnestness. "Thank God, you can do nothing here!"
The Russian turned on him. His usual suave manner had left him. His words were little else than an angry snarl.
"You know me well—very well, indeed, my English friend. You who have met me—is it not once—perhaps, eh, twice?"
Manners laughed. A laugh that had no sound of mirth in it.
"I've met you again and again. And you know it! And there's something else we have to settle for—And you know that, too—Mr.—Mr. Andreyvitch!"
And then Gregory Manners turned to Mrs. Broughton-Hollins.
"Good afternoon," he said, quietly.