A waiter, mouth open, was staring from the doorway.
Symington stood up, his expression devilish. He had a fruit knife in his hand—a frail, pretty thing, yet pointed. He lunged at his enemy’s face. Again the cane swished, and the knife fell to the floor.
“Gentlemen,” gasped the waiter.
“Well?” inquired Colin. “Is it to be the police?”
“Damn you! Get out of this! I’ll make you sorrier than any police judge could do.”
“Very well,” said Colin, turning to the door. “In the meantime,” he added, over his shoulder, “if I were you, I’d get the waiter to remove the raisins from your chin and left eyebrow.” With that, perhaps the unkindest cut of all, he went out, leaving Symington almost beside himself with passion.
As for the waiter, the unfortunate creature was so tactless as to smile at the raisins, and two days later he was dismissed from the hotel service.
As soon as he reached the street, Colin realized that he was shaking all over. “What a rage I must have been in!” he said to himself, half gladly, half ruefully.
“Well, I guess he won’t trouble Kitty again, and I don’t see how he’s going to get at me.”
But Colin did not know Symington, or he would have, at least, qualified his confidence. As a matter of fact, by thrashing the man he had simply turned a cad into a blackguard. But he drove back to Aberdare Mansions feeling that he had been able to do something for his beloved after all, though she must never know of it, and he arrived there happier than he had been for months.