"By gad, sir, get out of here," he admonished, "or I'll very soon have the concierge throw you out!"
"You?" asked the stranger, with a belligerent glare.
"Exactly!" Ainsworth answered emphatically. He looked as if he would quite gladly exempt the concierge from consideration and perform the operation himself.
Trascott had been roaming the room in search of an hotel servant who could lead this obstinate fellow away; there being none about, however, he compromised on a marker and returned to the intruder.
He still concentrated his attention on the lawyer with that same belligerent glare, though in his eyes a rising flicker of apprehension betrayed the inward reflection that he had somehow caught a Tartar in this smooth-faced, perfectly-fed man with coat off and billiard-cue in hand.
"You're Britton?" he inquired in a thick, heavy voice.
"I'm nothing of the sort," the irate lawyer returned.
The stranger took a step nearer and leaned his hip against the billiard-table.
"You deny it?" he snarled vindictively. "The assistant concierge informed me that you were Britton."
Ainsworth flourished the cue in his hand suggestively.