And looking, Adrian beheld the chauffeur, fiery-eyed, with bristling black mustache, and, struggling in his vicious grip, Joanna Smyrthwaite herself—Joanna dissipated, degraded, with prominent, blear blue eyes and weak hanging underlip, masquerading in man's attire, as in those infamous, now obliterated drawings upon René Dax's studio wall.
Disgust, and a vague apprehension of something unnatural and outside reason, seized on Adrian Savage. The sight was loathsome, to a degree, both in suggestion and in fact. Then he understood; and, understanding, suffered a moment of acute indecision. But a crowd was collecting. The police might arrive upon the scene. Making a strong effort to surmount his disgust, he said:
"Let him go, Martin. I know him. I will explain to you presently. Now I require your help."
Then he added rapidly, in English:
"Pardon my servant's rudeness. In the end you shall not have cause to regret it. You are William Smyrthwaite—Bibby—are you not?"
Martin relinquished his hold sulkily. His victim, dazed and breathless, stood at bay; a ring of curious, contemptuous faces behind him, and Adrian, stern, yet excited, and with difficulty repressing evidences of his repugnance, in front.
"And, if I am Bibby Smyrthwaite, what the devil is that to you?" he answered petulantly in English. "I never set eyes on you before. Why should you interfere with me? Haven't I as much right to the pavement as that liveried brute of yours? I've got a job as cab-washer. If I'm late at the yard I shall forfeit my pay. And I want my pay."
His loose-lipped mouth twisted miserably and tears began to dribble down his sunken cheeks.
"Let me go," he blubbered. "I haven't done you any harm, and I want my pay."
Then Adrian, moved by compassion, came close to him and spoke kindly.