Jerry stepped forward into the light of the lamp. He was enraged and chagrined at the encounter.
“Hiding?” he exclaimed haughtily. “Why should I be hiding?”
The Colonel came close to him and said with low-toned emphasis:
“Because you’re a liar and a coward, Jerry Barclay; and you were afraid to meet me.”
Jerry drew back crying with amazed rage:
“Colonel Parrish!”
“And you tried to hide from me to-night when I know what you are and what you’ve done. You scrub—you—”
Barclay hit furiously at him, but the older man evaded the blow, and seizing him by the loosened fronts of his coat, with his open hand struck him on both sides of the face and then flung him against the fence. He squared himself to meet an onslaught but Jerry struck heavily and fell, a dark, sprawling mass on the sidewalk. The oath that he shouted as he reeled back was bitten in two by an ejaculation of pain and he lay motionless, groaning in the dark.
“Stay there and howl,” said the Colonel. “If I stayed another moment I’d kick you as you lie.”
And he turned and ran down the street. The rattle of a carriage struck his ear and a coupé turned the corner, its lamps glaring like two round yellow eyes. He hailed it, thrust a handful of silver into the driver’s hand, and gave him the Allen address on Folsom Street.