If Micky had dropped a bomb in the room it could hardly have created more consternation. The incredulity on the faces of the men around him would have been amusing to an onlooker, but to Micky the whole thing was tragedy.
He had brought Esther to this with his blundering quixotism; he was nearly beside himself with remorse.
If he had been free he would have half killed Ashton. His hands ached to get at him; to take him by his lying throat and choke the breath from his body.
He looked at the men around him with passionate eyes.
“I’ve never given any of you cause to doubt my word yet,” he said hoarsely. “And I’m sure you’ll agree with me that this man should be made to retract what he said and apologise.”
“Certainly––he ought to apologise. It’s disgraceful––infernally disgraceful,” said a man who had been listening to Ashton’s story eagerly enough a moment ago.
“What do you say, gentlemen?”
There was a chorus of assent. The men who had been holding Micky’s arms let him go.
Ashton backed a step away.
His face was livid, his eyes furious, but he knew that there was no other course open to him; nobody in the room had any sympathy with him now.