Uttering a furious imprecation, Sidney Repton struck out at him. But a pupil of Shashu Myuku (Grand Master of the Higher Jiu-jitsu) is elusive as a marsh-light. There are not six Europeans, my friend has assured me, initiated in the occultry of Japanese super-force.
Repton’s fists met vacancy. Obedient to a power which, seemingly percolating from his nose through every nerve of his body, rendered him helpless—log-like—Repton dropped, panting, to his knees. O’Hagan thrust him prostrate, entered, and closed the door behind him. The feat apparently was performed effortless; such is the outstanding wonder of this science (called, I believe, judo).
“Police!” gasped the outraged man. “Help! Police!”
“Sir,” said O’Hagan sternly, “I should not exploit these arts upon a gentleman. But your whole conduct has shown me plainly that you are not one. However, I shall now resort to the ordinary methods employed to chastise an offensive churl.”
He removed, a light grey glove (imbrued with the blood of Repton), cast it contemptuously from him; and, as Repton rose, clutching the maltreated organ, O’Hagan grasped his heavy cane with unmistakable intent.
“Now,” said O’Hagan, standing on the threshold, “you will recall having referred to me as an ‘overdressed puppy’! I have yet to deal with you in regard to the offensive terms ‘lunatic,’ ‘ruffian,’ and ‘confounded policeman!’ ”
“Curse you! I’ll kill you!” panted Repton and crouched, looking up to O’Hagan with glaring, malignant eyes which, at that moment indeed, mirrored a murderous soul.
“I think not,” was the reply. “Others have attempted the feat; but I am here to-day, alive to resent insult.”
The other did not rise. Repton already was defeated. The business-like ferocity of O’Hagan, the absolute efficiency of his methods, caused to evaporate what remained of the quality vaguely labelled Courage, leaving only the brine of bitter anger and mortification.
“What do you want?” he said slowly, racking his muddled brains for a mode of retribution which should not render him ridiculous.