He lit a cigarette, and thoughtfully blew out a cloud of smoke.
“Stop this fooling,” snarled Peterson. “Where have you hidden Potts?”
“Tush, tush,” murmured Hugh. “You surprise me. I had formed such a charming mental picture of you, Mr. Peterson, as the strong, silent man who never lost his temper, and here you are disappointing me at the beginning of our acquaintance.”
For a moment he thought that Peterson was going to strike him, and his own fist clenched under the table.
“I wouldn’t, my friend,” he said quietly, “indeed I wouldn’t. Because if you hit me, I shall most certainly hit you. And it will not improve your beauty.”
Slowly Peterson sank back in his chair, and the veins which had been standing out on his forehead, became normal again. He even smiled; only the ceaseless tapping of his hand on his left knee betrayed his momentary loss of composure. Drummond’s fist unclenched, and he stole a look at the girl. She was in her favourite attitude on the sofa, and had not even looked up.
“I suppose that it is quite useless for me to argue with you,” said Peterson after a while.
“I was a member of my school debating society,” remarked Hugh reminiscently. “But I was never much good. I’m too obvious for argument, I’m afraid.”
“You probably realise from what has happened to-night,” continued Peterson, “that I am in earnest.”
“I should be sorry to think so,” answered Hugh. “If that is the best you can do, I’d cut it right out and start a tomato farm.”