He stood up and backed toward his desk.
“Remain where you are!” directed O’Hagan, pointing his cane. “Attempt to reach any weapon, and I shall thrash you until I am tired!”
“I am unarmed,” muttered Repton sullenly. “You have a heavy stick.”
The situation was wildly bizarre—unlike anything within his experience; of which he had dreamed. The querulous voice did not seem his own.
O’Hagan placed his cane upon a chair, and raised the monocle.
“Do you contemplate an attack?” he asked, with a kind of pleased surprise.
Repton dropped into an armchair, and sank his face in his hands. His inflamed nose robbed the scene of a certain pathos which otherwise had found place there.
“You will sit at your desk,” said O’Hagan, “and write a note to the new editor of the Universe informing him that Mr. Bruce McIvor will be his leader-writer.”
Repton was galvanised. He started up; clutched the chair-arms.
“I shall not! Your damned interference in my affairs——” His voice broke.