Stafford's chin hardened, and a look of repulsion and disdain crossed over his face.
"It is more cryptic, I confess, than the letter which will cause you to do yourself a good turn."
Now Fellowes' face turned white. "What letter?" he asked, in a sharp, querulous voice.
"The letter you wrote Mrs. Byng from the Trafalgar Club yesterday."
Fellowes made a feint, an attempt at bravado. "What business is it of yours, anyhow? What rights have you got in Mrs. Byng's letters?"
"Only what I get from a higher authority."
"Are you in sweet spiritual partnership with the Trinity?"
"The higher authority I mean is Mr. Byng. Let us have no tricks with words, you fool."
Fellowes made an ineffective attempt at self-possession.
"What the devil ... why should I listen to you?" There was a peevish stubbornness in the tone.