“What I said is the truth,” he broke out spluttering. “You were in Paris with....” But the name was never spoken––Micky’s clenched fist shot out and struck him right in the mouth.
In a moment the room was in an uproar; half a dozen men rushed at Micky and pinned his arms.
“Mellowes––for God’s sake––if Hooper comes in....”
Ashton had staggered back against the wall; his mouth was cut and bleeding; he was swearing horribly.
Micky was crimson in the face; the veins stood out like cords on his forehead; he was straining every nerve to free himself from his captors.
“Apologise!” he gasped. “Apologise, you dammed cad!”
Ashton laughed savagely.
“Apologise! What for? It’s the truth, and you know it. Apologise! I’ll repeat it.... I say that you were in Paris three weeks ago with Esther Shepstone, one of the girls from Eldred’s....”
Micky suddenly stopped struggling, but his breath 285 came in deep gasps as he spoke. He looked round at the faces of the other men.
“I know most of you––here,” he said in a laboured voice. “And most of you know me––and you know that I’m not a damned liar like Ashton; and I know that you’ll believe me––believe me––when I tell you that the lady who was with me in––in Paris––three weeks ago––is my wife ... we’ve been married some time––and it is solely by her wish that it has been kept a secret.”