Slotman would have gone. Hugh thrust out a strong arm and barred his way.
“Wait!” he said, “blackmailer!”
“I—I was asking for a loan.”
“A gift of money with threats—lying, infamous threats. How shall I deal with you?” Hugh frowned as in thought. “How can a man deal with a dog like you? Dog—may all dogs forgive me the libel! Shall I thrash you? Shall I tear the clothes from your body, and thrash you and fling you, bleeding and tattered, into that field? Shall I hand you over to the Police?”
“You—you dare not,” Slotman said; his teeth were chattering. “It will mean her name being dragged in the mud, the whole thing coming out. You—you dare not do it.”
“You are right. I dare not, for the sake of her name—the name of such a woman must never be uttered in connection with such a thing as yourself. How, then, shall I deal with you? It must be the thrashing, yet it is not enough. It is a pity the duel has gone out, not that you would have fought me with a sword or pistol, Slotman, still—Yes, it must be the thrashing.”
“If you touch me—”
Hugh laughed sharply. “If I touch you, what?”
“I shall call for help. I shall summon you. I—”
“Put your hands up.”