The words were fuel to smouldering flame.
Morice Conyers forgot caution and wisdom both.
With a curse he sprang forward, dashing his hand into the other's face.
"Fools for the punch-bowl," he shouted. "You may drown your coward whines in it if you're afraid to be a man. But I tell you I've done with your traitor Societies, and the rest of 'em. I've been knave and villain long enough. Heaven knows I was both, with my fool's eyes shut to what I was doing. You brought me here to whistle to your tunes; you'll find I have one of my own to sing—a song that won't sully the lips of a Marquis de Varenac, nor those of an honest Englishman."
Denningham's face was very white—save where the mark of Morice's fingers had brought a red patch to his cheek.
"Honest Englishman!" he gibed. "Mongrel cur is the better title. Where have you been hiding, noble night-bird? Too-whoo—too-whoo,—the owl should keep to forest-shade in the daylight, lest the hunter might shoot her as too noisy a pest."
"You shall give me——"
"Satisfaction? Come, come, Mr. Forest-skulker, be not too valiant; it is dangerous. Still, if you will,—what time like the present?"
"I'll not wait longer."
Morice's fury was at fever-pitch, his passion blinding him to all discretion.