The hot blood died down, leaving him cool and alert. He pushed the door wide and walked into the room.
The group of men by the fireplace scattered; some 284 one coughed deprecatingly; some one else seized upon a siphon and began filling an already full glass recklessly.
Nobody spoke.
Micky kicked the door to behind him, shutting it with a slam.
His eyes went straight to Ashton––a pale Ashton, trying to smile unconcernedly and brazen the situation out.
“I’ll give you two minutes in which to apologise,” Micky said in a voice of steel. “Two minutes in which to retract the damned lies you’ve just been saying in this room––or––or I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life.”
In the silence following one could have heard a pin drop. Every one looked at Ashton. Micky took out his watch.
It seemed an eternity before Ashton spoke.
“If you’ve been listening–––” he began blustering.
He moistened his dry lips.