“Leave this house, you drunken insolent scoundrel!”
“Father! for pity’s sake,” cried Claire, trying to interfere.
“No, no; stand back, my child,” cried the old man angrily. “He has come back again to-night tipsy. He has insulted me once more, and he shall not stay here—I can turn him out, and I will.”
“Not you, and I shan’t go,” hiccupped Isaac, seizing the plinth at the bottom of the balusters and holding on. “I don’t go from here ’thout my money—every penny of it, so now, old Denville.”
“Pray, pray let me pass, father, and shut the door,” cried Claire.
“No, my dear,” said the old man, whose blood was now up. “He shall leave this house at once.”
“No, I shan’t leave neither without my box.”
The struggle went on, and the lamp would have been knocked off the bracket but for Claire’s hand. The contending parties swayed here and there, but it was evident that the footman was far the stronger, while Denville’s forces were failing moment by moment.
“Can I be of any assistance, Mr Denville?” said a voice that thrilled Claire through and through, but which made her shrink back up a few stairs to avoid being seen.
“Who’s that?—Mr Linnell? Yes,” panted Denville. “My servant, sir—my lacquey. This is the fourth time he has come back from being absent without leave, intoxicated, sir. Tipsy. Not fit to come into a gentleman’s presence.”