“Doesn’t he!” said Poynter, with a mocking laugh. “You see you don’t know everything, my dear. Come, what’s it going to be—peace or war?”
“War!” said Richmond firmly. “My father cannot owe you money, and as to my brother, he would sooner die than see his sister sold as a slave to pay his debts.”
“Would he?” snarled Poynter. “Why he’s as weak as water; I can turn him around my thumb. You tried to keep him away. He wouldn’t own it; but I know. He came, though, all the same, when I asked him; and he will come, too, as often as I like, and he’ll help me to make you— Bah! nonsense! Come, don’t let’s talk like this: you’re out of sorts, and no wonder, and I’ve come at a bad time. To-morrow you’ll be cool, and you’ll put that little hand in mine, and say, ‘James Poynter, you’ve acted like a man and my best friend, and I won’t say no.’”
He tried to take her hand, but she shrank from him.
“Sir, I beg that you will not come here again,” she said, drawing herself up. “I am not blind to your position with my brother, but—”
“Your brother’s a weak-minded young fool!” cried Poynter, who had now thoroughly become roused, so withering was the contempt written in Rich’s eyes; “and—”
He stopped short, for in the heat of the encounter neither had heard the latch-key in the front-door, nor the opening of that of the room, to admit Hendon Chartley, who stood still for a few moments, and then strode to his sister’s side and put his arm round her.
“Yes,” he said hoarsely, “I have been a weak young fool, James Poynter, to let you play with me as you pleased; but please God, with my sister’s help, I’m going to be strong now, and if you don’t leave this house I’ll kick you out.”
“You kick me out!” snarled Poynter, snatching his handkerchief from his pocket and polishing his hat savagely; “not you! So it’s going to be war, is it? Why, if I liked— There, you needn’t threaten. I’m not going to quarrel with you, my lad, because we’re going to be brothers.”
“Brothers!” cried Hendon, in tones of contempt.