With a howl of rage and surprise Markheim picked himself up and came at his manservant with purple face and popping eyes.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he shouted. "Leave the room!"
"Not until I've given you the thrashing of your life!" replied the valet. "Come and get your punishment if you won't clear out!"
And Markheim came. With a roar he flew at the man, striking blindly, wildly, and uttering a volley of language which was in itself a shower of blows. How long they fought Peaches hardly knows. Crouched against the mantelshelf as if seeking the protection of the calmly smiling Virgin above, she watched the two men struggle to a finish. She was fascinated, terrified, and at the same time fiercely exalted. The end came abruptly, with Markheim sprawling on the floor, and Sandro slowly raising himself to a towering figure of contemptuous victory above his employer.
"Get up!" he said, panting, as he administered a kick to the prostrate body of the other man. "That will do, I expect. Get up!"
Moaning, Sebastian obeyed, his face streaked with blood from a cut upon his forehead, his left eye swollen and rapidly turning as purple as the tattered remains of his dressing gown.
"I'll have the law on you for this!" he warned, fumbling for his handkerchief.
"Come here!" commanded the servant in a voice of authority.
"Help!" squeaked Markheim. But before he could utter another sound Wilkes had him by the collar, and was dragging him to where Peaches still cowered against the wall.
"None of that nonsense!" commanded Sandro. "If you yell I'll have to give you another drubbing. Now get down on your knees and ask her pardon!"