He flung the Jew away from him, so that he went reeling half across the room. Mr. Bernstein addressed himself, with stammering lips, to the inspector.
“Mr. Symonds, he’s—he’s not right in his head; he’s excited—he’s been drinking; look at those bottles!”
Lawrence threw out his arms with a laugh.
“Look at those bottles! Evidences of a giant’s thirst! I’ll have another!”
Taking a bottle of champagne out of the collection in the corner, with what looked like a palette knife he struck the neck off with a cleanness and dexterity which denoted practice. The wine foamed up. He filled a soda-water tumbler, emptying it at a draught.
“That’s the stuff! It’s got a sting in it! I like my drink to have a sting!”
Bernstein drew the inspector’s attention to his proceedings.
“You see. That’s how he goes on—drink! drink! drink! He does nothing else but drink. You wouldn’t pay any attention to his ravings when they reflect upon a respectable man?”
“Respectable man! Isaac Bernstein, respectable man?”
He tossed the bottle he was holding towards the Jew. If the other had not ducked, it would have struck him.