“Uncle!” cried Louise, whose pale face now flamed up as she glanced at Leslie, and saw that he avoided her eyes.
“You wait,” he said. “I’ll finish with this fellow first, and end by taking you home.”
“But, uncle, let me explain.”
“You’ll hold your tongue!” cried Pradelle sharply. “Think what you are going to do.”
“Yes, she can hold her tongue,” cried Uncle Luke, “while I settle our little business, sir. Let me see. Ah! I was always sure of that.”
Pradelle had thrust himself forward offensively, and in a threatening manner so near that the old man had only to dart out one hand to seize him by the throat; and quick as lightning had drawn an old gold ring from the scarf the young man wore.
“What are you doing?” roared Pradelle, clenching his fist.
“Taking possession of my own. Look here, Leslie, my old signet ring that scoundrel took from a nail over my chimney-piece.”
“It’s a lie, it’s—”
“My crest, and enough by itself to justify the police being called up.”