"Well?" Drummond demanded harshly in a quavering snarl. "Now that you've got me, what're you going to do with me?"
There was a high, hysterical accent in his voice that struck unpleasantly on Ember's ear. He cocked his head to one side, studying the man intently.
Drummond flung himself a step away from the table, paused, and again faced his captors with bravado.
"Well?" he cried again. "Well?"
Ember nodded toward Whitaker. "Ask him," he said briefly.
Whitaker shook his head. It was difficult to think how to deal with this trapped animal, so wildly different from the cultivated gentleman he always had in mind when he thought of Drummond. The futility of attempting to deal with him according to any code recognized by men of honour was wretchedly apparent.
"Drummond," he said slowly, "I wish to God you hadn't done this thing."
Drummond laughed discordantly. "Keep your mealy-mouthed compassion for yourself," he retorted, sneering. "I'm no worse than you, only I got caught." He added in a low tone, quivering with uncontrollable hatred: "Damn you!"
Whitaker gave a gesture of despair. "If you'd only been content to keep out of the way...! If only you'd let me alone—"
"Then you let Sara Law alone, d'you hear?"