“This is something I never expected to see,” he said, “Mr. Anthony Cardew on my doorstep.”
“I don't give a damn what you expected to see,” said Mr. Anthony Cardew. “I want to see my daughter.”
“Your daughter? You have said for a good many years that you have no daughter.”
“Stand aside, sir. I didn't come here to quibble.”
“But I love to quibble,” sneered Doyle. “However, if you insist—I might as well tell you, I haven't the remotest intention of letting you in.”
“I'll ask you a question,” said old Anthony. “Is it true that my daughter has been hurt?”
“My wife is indisposed. I presume we are speaking of the same person.”
“You infernal scoundrel,” shouted Anthony, and raising his cane, brought it down with a crack on Doyle's head. The chauffeur was half-way up the walk by that time, and broke into a run. He saw Doyle, against the light, reel, recover and raise his fist, but he did not bring it down.
“Stop that!” yelled the chauffeur, and came on like a charging steer. When he reached the steps old Anthony was hanging his stick over his left forearm, and Doyle was inside the door, trying to close it. This was difficult, however, because Anthony had quietly put his foot over the sill.
“I am going to see my daughter, Paul,” said Anthony Cardew. “Can you open the door?”