“Not at Westminster, at the Ashford, at Madame ——”
“Never, sir!” exclaimed Richard, stopping Gibbs in his enumeration of the places on the highway of infamy where they had supped together. “I once knew a scoundrel who led astray a wealthy merchant’s son and broke the father’s heart; you are something like that aristocratic sneak, but you are not he. The man I mean was a swell, wore light kid gloves, and splendid shirts. They did say he wore stays, and thought himself a woman killer; you are not that man, but some blear-eyed, shambling vagabond who would impose upon a gentleman in order that he may give you a night’s lodging in the station house.”
“You infernal damned scoundrel,” said Gibbs, rushing towards the cool satirical friend of former days; “you miserable mushroom huxter!”
Richard Tallant was by far the strongest man of the two, and he felled Gibbs to the ground with ease.
“Now, shall I ring the bell and have you pitched into the street, or will you get up and go home to dinner, or go to your club and have devilled chops and champagne—eh?”
Gibbs gathered himself together and stood before his victor, clenching his hands and teeth, and trembling with passion.
“I will go,” he said, hissing out the words as if they scorched him. “The cat will mew; the dog will have his day.”
Mr. Tallant rang the bell. A servant came on the instant.
“Show this fellow to the door; if ever he presumes to make his appearance here again thrust him into the street and give him in charge of the police.”
“Yes, sir,” said the man, “this way.”