Brought back by the young lady's words to a sense of reality, Mr. Haines spluttered out an apology.
"I beg your pardon. It was an accident." Then he raved at Mr. Holman. "You--you devil! You've been having me, tricking me, doing me. You cursed slippery British hound, I feel like killing you!"
He looked as he said he felt. His tall figure was drawn upright, his long arms were stretched out in front of him, his fists were clenched as in a paroxysm of rage.
Mr. Holman stared at him with stolid imperturbability.
"Perhaps, when you've quite finished, you'll tell us what's wrong."
"You know. Don't you try to play it any more off on to me, or the presence of a woman shan't save you."
"What's the matter with the man?" asked Mrs. Holman.
"Don't you hear me asking him?" chimed in her lord. "But it doesn't seem as if he cared to tell us."
As if one was not sufficient, Mr. Haines began shaking both his fists at the detective.
"You said you knew nothing about her; you told me you could not help me; you advised me to go back by the next ship. I could not make it out. Now I do catch on. You had her portrait all the time."