The sound of his wife’s voice had a wonderful effect upon Sir Hilton for the moment, and, turning sharply, he rushed out of the drawing-room and down the passage leading to the servants’ portion of the house.
“Here, Sam,” cried Syd, “come on and stop him. He’s going into another fit.”
The boy dashed after his uncle, closely followed by the trainer, and they overtook him in the pale light of the kitchen, whose window faced the east, standing, panting hard, with his hand upon the table, where he was collared by one on each side.
“What are you doing that for?” he cried.
“Never you mind, Sir Hilton. You’ve got to stop here.”
“That’s right, uncle. Come, steady! No larks.”
“Larks, sir? Let go. I insist. Let go, I tell you. I’m going to meet your aunt, Syd. I must have some explanation with her about all this.”
“Well, if you come to that, Sir Hilton, that’s what I want too about my gal. If it’s all the same, I’ll go back first.”
“That you don’t,” cried Syd, shifting his hold from uncle to father-in-law. “There’ll be row enough without having that in the mess. Hark! Can’t you hear talking?” he whispered. “Aunt’s having it over with Molly. Let them settle it before we go in.”
“Look here, don’t you talk like that, my boy, to one old enough to be your grandfather,” protested the trainer. “You’re not standing up for my gal’s rights as you should do, and if you don’t I must.”