Mr. Forde rose and put his hands in his pockets. "You will not speak to me about it, my good sir; depend upon that," he observed.
"I think you must have misunderstood me," ventured Mr. Leigh in amazement.
"No, sir, I have not," was the reply. "I wrote a friendly letter to Mrs. Mortomley, and instead of coming to me herself she sends a lawyer. I will have nothing to do with you, sir. There is the door; be kind enough, as you came through it, to go out through it."
"Certainly," agreed Mr. Leigh, "but—"
"Leave the room, sir," roared Mr. Forde. "Will you go out of the premises peaceably, or must I put you out?"
"Mr. Forde," remarked the lawyer, "you must be mad or drunk. In either case I can have no wish to remain in your company. Good morning."
"Leave the room, sir," repeated Mr. Forde. He was one of those men who think some charm lies in shouting out a certain form of words so long as any one can be found to listen to it.
"Good morning," said Mr. Leigh again in reply, and he left St. Vedast Wharf boiling over with rage.
As he proceeded up the lane he met a man with whom he had some acquaintance—a man recently elected one of the directors of the General Chemical Company, Limited.
"Why, Leigh," said this gentleman, "where are you coming from?"