"Were you led away? ... Was it the first time? ... Whether or no, it's not too late to change, and lead a life of decency. As for this—man...."
The young woman interrupted, with lowered eyes shunning her:
"We're to be married! He's promised me upon his oath!"
Her companion purpled furiously, and broke out:
"You're lying, you——! I picked you up in the Haymarket! Do you think I'm afraid of you and your bullies there? Stand back!"
Fulminating threats, he thrust roughly past Miss Ling, driving her, possibly not with intention, against the landing wall. She gave a little cry, and the poker fell.... He bellowed:
"—— you! You've broken my arm, you—blackguard! Where's the police?"
A grip of steel shut upon his scruff, and the voice belonging to the grip said cheerfully:
"In the street. Come down and look for 'em, my man!"
His protests were drowned in the rattling of his boot-heels on the oil-cloth-covered staircase, in the violence of his transit to the ground-floor. There, as Mr. Knewbit, dodging past, opened the hall door, he was shot from its threshold as a human bullet from a spring-cannon, even then supplying a sensational turn at the Royal Alhambra Theater—rolled down the steps, gathering momentum, and colliding with a late milk-truck that happened to be passing, suffered abrasions and the ruin of his smart frock-coat. Leaving the victim of righteous judgment to appease the justly-indignant milkman with some of the silver shed from his trousers-pockets in the transit, Mr. Knewbit slammed the door, and crowed, slapping P. C. Breagh heartily upon the back.