“You can’t bounce me,” he said.
“I swear it. I’ve just left him. He’s gone there with the pistols, and he can shoot straight—terribly straight.”
“Then it isn’t a joke?”
“A joke! He’ll kill you. Oh, Harrington, you must fly—get away—hide somewhere. Look: it’s Saturday night. I’ll let you know if it’s safe to come back on Monday—but you must go now.”
“By God, if it’s like that, I will,” gasped May, and reached for his coat and hat.
“You won’t face him?”
“I’m not looking for a funeral. Thanks for telling me.”
As he clattered down the corridor, Blanche called the word “coward” after his retreating form.
It was a very formidable and grim young man who, half-an-hour later, alighted on the fringes of that pleasant dell known as Jesmond Dene. Under his arm he carried the case of pistols, and the lines about his mouth were set and hard.
“You will wait,” he said, addressing the cabman.