"No. I will act, not threaten."
"Ah," drawled Ruthven, "I may do the same the next time my wife spends the evening in your apartment."
"You lie," said Selwyn in a voice made low by surprise.
"Oh, no, I don't. Very chivalrous of you—quite proper for you to deny it like a gentleman—but useless, quite useless. So the less said about invoking the law, the better for—some people. You'll agree with me, I dare say. . . . And now, concerning your friend, Gerald Erroll—I have not the slightest desire to see him play cards. Whether or not he plays is a matter perfectly indifferent to me, and you had better understand it. But if you come here demanding that I arrange my guest-lists to suit you, you are losing time."
Selwyn, almost stunned at Ruthven's knowledge of the episode in his rooms, had risen as he gave the man the lie direct.
For an instant, now, as he stared at him, there was murder in his eye. Then the utter hopeless helplessness of his position overwhelmed him, as Ruthven, with danger written all over him, stood up, his soft smooth thumbs hooked in the glittering sash of his kimona.
"Scowl if you like," he said, backing away instinctively, but still nervously impertinent; "and keep your distance! If you've anything further to say to me, write it." Then, growing bolder as Selwyn made no offensive move, "Write to me," he repeated with a venomous smirk; "it's safer for you to figure as my correspondent than as my wife's co-respondent—L-let go of me! W-what the devil are you d-d-doing—"
For Selwyn had him fast—one sinewy hand twisted in his silken collar, holding him squirming at arm's length.
"M-murder!" stammered Mr. Ruthven.
"No," said Selwyn, "not this time. But be very, very careful after this."