Thomas clapped his hand to his chin and discovered blood.
“You little—!” He never found the right word (which perhaps is just as well); instead he started in pursuit of Bealby.
Bealby—in his sudden horror of his own act—and Thomas fled headlong into the passage and made straight for the service stairs that went up into a higher world. He had little time to think. Thomas with a red-smeared chin appeared in pursuit. Thomas the avenger. Thomas really roused. Bealby shot through the green baize door and the pursuing footman pulled up only just in time not to follow him.
Only just in time. He had an instinctive instant anxious fear of great dangers. He heard something, a sound as though the young of some very large animal had squeaked feebly. He had a glimpse of something black and white—and large....
Then something, some glass thing, smashed.
He steadied the green baize door which was wobbling on its brass hinges, controlled his panting breath and listened.
A low rich voice was—ejaculating. It was not Bealby’s voice, it was the voice of some substantial person being quietly but deeply angry. They were the ejaculations restrained in tone but not in quality of a ripe and well-stored mind,—no boy’s thin stuff.
Then very softly Thomas pushed open the door—just widely enough to see and as instantly let it fall back into place.
Very gently and yet with an alert rapidity he turned about and stole down the service stairs.
His superior officer appeared in the passage below.