"Of course you might leave a message, Mr. Flowers—"
"Now, see here, you!" said M'Ginnis, his words coming thick with passion. "I wanter know, first, where Spike is. And then I wanter know who you are. And then I wanter know what you're after in Hermy Chesterton's flat—and you're sure goin' t' tell me!"
"Am I?"
"You sure are!"
Mr. Ravenslee opened the matchbox. "Seems a pity to shake a confidence so sublime," he sighed. "And yet—"
"An' see here again! I've known Hermy since we was kids, an' I don't allow no man t' come stamping around here—see? So you're goin' t' quit, an' you're goin' t' quit right now!"
"Do I look like a quitter, Mr. Flowers?"
Now beholding the speaker's lazy assurance of pose, the contemptuous indifference of his general air, M'Ginnis stood speechless a moment, his clenched fists quivering, while, above the loosely-tied scarf, his powerful neck seemed to swell and show knotted cords that writhed and twisted, and when at last he spoke, his words came in a panting rush.
"This is Hermy's flat, an' I guess—you think you're safe here—but you ain't! I'm thinkin' out which'll do th' least harm to her furniture—to lick ye here or drag you out on to the landin' first!"
Mr. Ravenslee lounged lower in the armchair and yawned behind the box of matches. And in that moment, like a maddened animal, M'Ginnis leapt upon him and, striking no blow, seized and shook Ravenslee in powerful, frantic hands, while from between his lips, curled back from big, white teeth, came a continuous, vicious, hissing sound.