“And you were forestalled,” cried Artis. “Here, what are you going to do?”
“Thrash a contemptible scoundrel within an inch of his life,” cried Capel; and he made a grasp at Artis’s arm.
But the latter eluded him, bounded to the fire-place, and picked up the bright poker.
“Keep off,” he cried, “or I’ll murder you.”
Cling! Jingle!
He had struck the glass lustres of the great chandelier, and the fragments fell tinkling down.
Crack! A yell of pain! A dull thud!
With a dexterous blow, Capel caught Artis’s right hand with the stout cane, numbing his nerves, so that the poker fell. With a second blow, he seemed to hamstring his adversary, who staggered, and would have fallen, but for Capel’s hand grasping him by the collar; and then, for two or three minutes, there was a hail of blows falling, and a terrible struggle going on. The light chairs were kicked aside, a table overturned, a vase and several ornaments swept from a cheffonier, and suppressed cries, panting noises and blows, filled the gloomy room, till, after one final stroke with the cane, Capel dashed the helpless, quivering man to the floor, and placed his foot upon his breast.
An hour later, when Preenham went up from a confidential talk with his fellow-servants to admit Mr Girtle and Lydia—back from the theatre—he found the front door open. Had he been half an hour sooner, he would have seen Katrine, fully dressed, supporting Artis down the dark stairs, and out into the darkness of the great square, where they were seen by the light of one of the street lamps to enter a cab, and then they passed out of sight.
Preenham saw nothing, and Mr Girtle and Lydia ascended to the drawing-room, the latter feeling light-hearted and happy, in spite of the evening’s disappointment.