But it seemed to Lord Moggeridge, staggering over his broken glass and circling about defensively, that this fearful indignity could come only from Captain Douglas. Foolery.... Blup, blup.... Sham Poltergeist. Imbeciles....
He said as much, believing that this young man and possibly confederates were within hearing; he said as much—hotly. He went on to remark of an unphilosophical tendency about Captain Douglas generally, and about army officers, practical joking, Laxton’s hospitalities, Shonts.... Thomas, you will remember, heard him....
Nothing came of it. No answer, not a word of apology.
At last in a great dudgeon and with a kind of wariness about his back, the Lord Chancellor, with things more spoilt for him than ever, went on his way upstairs.
When the green baize door opened behind him, he turned like a shot, and a large foolish-faced butler appeared. Lord Moggeridge, with a sceptre-like motion of the decanter, very quietly and firmly asked him a simple question and then, then the lunatic must needs leap up three stairs and dive suddenly and upsettingly at his legs.
Lord Moggeridge was paralyzed with amazement. His legs were struck from under him. He uttered one brief topographical cry.
(To Sir Peter unfortunately it sounded like “Help!”)
For a few seconds the impressions that rushed upon Lord Moggeridge were too rapid for adequate examination. He had a compelling fancy to kill butlers. Things culminated in a pistol shot. And then he found himself sitting on the landing beside a disgracefully dishevelled manservant, and his host was running downstairs to them with a revolver in his hand.
On occasion Lord Moggeridge could produce a tremendous voice. He did so now. For a moment he stared panting at Sir Peter, and then emphasized by a pointing finger came the voice. Never had it been so charged with emotion.
“What does this mean, you, Sir?” he shouted. “What does this mean?”