'You came to my house at Chilcote a welcome guest, then you stole the affections of my daughter. You have followed her to Antwerp with plans best known to yourself; and where—oh, where—is she now?'
'Sir Ranald!' expostulated Goring, piteously, and feeling his face grow pale.
'Talk not to me!' resumed Sir Ranald, in his tone of fury again; 'every silly girl thinks she is in love, or that she must love the first man who says he loves her.'
These strange utterances made Goring half forget the errand on which he had come, and utterly forget the fortuitous but fortunate wealth which would, he hoped, have made that errand perhaps successful.
'Vile trickster, you shall answer to me for all the mischief you have wrought!' exclaimed Sir Ranald, breaking the silence that had ensued, though, if glances could kill, Goring's earthly career had ended there and then. 'We are in Belgium, and, old as I am, I shall cover you with a pistol at twelve paces, even if I should be propped against a post—by heaven I shall! Do you hear me, sir?'
'You are very wrong, Sir Ranald, to address me thus,' said Goring, gravely and sadly; 'and, though you might level ten pistols at me, God forbid that I should level one at you—the father of her I have come so far to seek, and, if I understand your terrible words, apparently in vain.'
'Don't speak of my daughter, sir, and don't attempt to humbug me!' thundered Sir Ranald, almost beside himself with rage and weakness. 'Bah!' he added, scornfully, 'to follow her here was pleasanter and safer work than fighting the Ashantees. Will you meet me at any time or place—we may select to-morrow?'
'For what purpose?'
'Can you ask? To fight me.'
'Absurd—I shall not.'