Hastings rose, astounded by the outbreak.
"I'm afraid you don't realize the seriousness of——"
"Oh, get out of here!" Sloane interrupted again. "You've imposed on my daughter with your talk of being helpful, and all that rot, but you can't hoodwink me. What the devil do you mean by letting that sheriff come in here and subject me to all this annoyance and shock? You'd save us from unpleasantness!"
He spoke more slowly now, as if he cudgelled his brain for the most biting sarcasm, the most unbearable insolence.
"Don't realize the seriousness!—Flat-headed fiends!—Are you any nearer the truth now than you were at the start?—Try to understand this, Mr. Hastings: you're discharged, fired! From now on, I'm in charge of what goes on in this house. If there's any trouble to be avoided, I'll attend to it. Get that!—and get out!"
Hastings, opening his mouth for angry retort, checked himself. He stood a moment silent, shaken by the effort it cost him to maintain his self-control.
"Humph!" Sloane's nasal, twangy exclamation was clearly intended to provoke him further.
But, without a word, he turned and left the room. Passing the screen near the door, he heard Jarvis snicker, a discreet echo of Sloane's goading ridicule.
On his way back to the parlour, the old man made up his mind to discount Sloane's behaviour.
"I've got to take a chance," he counselled himself, "but I know I'm right in doing it. A big responsibility—but I'm right!"