“Damn you, Bradley,—that rough stuff don’t go with me! Let loose of him, or, by God, I’ll blow your dam’ face off!”
Clifford saw Bradley’s flaming little eyes shift toward the speaker. Then he saw the monk-like figure shift the pistol from jaw to Bradley’s shoulder.
“No, I’ll not kill you; I’ll splinter your dam’ bones,” the sharp voice cried with fierce decision. “Get off that man before I count three, or your left arm’ll be the first bone to go. One—two—”
The hands left Clifford’s throat, and the heavy figure lifted itself from his body; and, thus freed, Clifford slumped to the floor where he sat limply, pantingly, against the table. Loveman had stepped around the table, and Clifford now saw that he was looking up at Bradley, and he saw that the cherubic, large-eyed face of the lawyer was grim with an awful wrath.
“You dam’ big boob!” cried the little man. “You’d let yourself—and me!—in for a criminal charge! And people have always said you have a brain!”
“I’ve taken all I can from him!” Bradley said thickly.
“Either you control your temper and cut out the rough stuff,” snapped Loveman, “or you and I are through!”
The pair gazed fixedly at each other. Neither spoke. While they stood silent, Clifford became aware of the Japanese butler, his back toward the three of them and seemingly unaware of their doings, on his knees picking up bottles and broken glass and toweling up the spilled liquor from the rug.
Without replying, Bradley put his hands in his trousers’ pockets, resumed his chair, and crossed his legs. With an easy motion Loveman dropped the pistol into a pocket of his dressing-gown, and stepped to Clifford’s side. He was again the agreeable man-about-town that Broadway liked so well.
“Too bad—but natural—the way men will lose their tempers,” he said, as he helped Clifford to his feet and into a chair. “How’re you feeling?”