“I don’t insinuate nothin’. I jest ain’t playin’ this hand.”
Claude came behind him.
“Careful, Jim,” he whispered. “You are making a very serious accusation.”
Meredith came across and stood within a foot of Jim’s taut face.
“Mr. Conlan,” he said, “I am waiting for an explanation.”
“Where I come from,” said Jim grimly, “men who slip cards that way are lynched on the nearest tree.”
A gasp came from the company. Never in the history of the club had anything like that happened.
“You liar!” snapped Meredith.
Jim’s hand came out. His fingers buried themselves in Meredith’s shoulder, till the pale face winced with pain. His great body tightened up and his eyes were like cold steel. No one had ever called him “liar” before. It aroused all the innate fury within him. The other hand was drawn back to strike—and then he remembered. He gave an almost pitiful 47 grunt and released his grip. Cholmondeley and a few others dragged him away.
“Conlan,” said Claude, “you oughtn’t to have said that. It isn’t done.”