“Oh yes, I see it,” said Adam, turning the key in the lock and putting it calmly in his pocket, “I see it all clearly. By the way, sir, who is John Rosella, if I may ask?”
Randolph had become pale. His eyes were growing wild. He had watched Rust lock the door with quaking dread.
“John Rosella?” he repeated, with a sickening sense of having overlooked something important, which he had thought an insignificant trifle; “why, that is merely the—her middle names. Her full name is Garde John Rosella Merrill.”
“I trust you are gentleman enough to fight,” said Rust, placing the letter in his pocket, “for I shall tell you, sir, that you are a liar, a scoundrel, a murderous blackguard.”
Walking up to the staring wretch, calmly, Adam slapped his face till the blow resounded in the room and Halberd came hastening to the door to know what could be the matter.
“I rang the bell,” said Rust, who opened the door with great deliberation. “Bring a sword for one. The gentleman wishes to fight.”
“What do you mean, sir?” said the trembling coward. “Give me back my letter. I shall leave this place at once!”
“Will you jump through the window?” Adam inquired, with mock concern. “Don’t call that letter yours again, or I may not let you off with a mere killing.”
Halberd came with his sword. Adam drew his own good blade from the battered scabbard he had always retained, and looked at the edge and the point, critically.
“I refuse to fight you!” said Randolph, who had once seen that terrible length of steel at play. “I demand to be released from this place!”