“Come in!” he said harshly.
The door opened, and Leigh Carter entered. Corwin did not know him, he did not remember having seen him with Fanchon, but he saw a slender boy of seventeen or eighteen, well-dressed and deathly pale, with the eyes of a girl.
“What do you want, kid?” he demanded sharply, setting down his glass.
Leigh walked straight across the room to the table and stood looking down at him, an image of young scorn and wrath.
“I’m Leigh Carter,” he said, breathing quickly. “I’ve heard the infamous story you’re telling about a lady—my sister-in-law, Mrs. William Carter—a story that she ran away with you last night. I’m here to demand the truth. Did you—did you dare to tell such a story here?”
Corwin’s first stare of surprise gave way to a slow, insulting grin. He measured Leigh from head to foot. Then he laughed.
“Yes,” he replied truculently. “I did say that—and a damned sight more, Mr. Leigh Carter—kid. And it’s every bit true!”
Leigh’s hands shook as he grasped the edge of the table.
“You’ll take that back, Mr. Corwin,” he said in a low voice, leaning forward and looking at the man opposite.
Corwin laughed, tilting his chair and putting his feet on the table. His very nonchalance stung the boy opposite with a fresh sense of insult.