Repton hesitated. To comply was to burn his boats. The cane quivered in O’Hagan’s nervous grasp.
“It’s irregular. It may be annulled at Wednesday’s meeting.”
“If it is annulled I shall thrash you in public, when and where I next meet you. You will be at liberty to take what steps you please.”
Lifting the receiver from the hook, Sidney Repton made several calls, briefly communicating to those who ruled the Universe that Mr. Bruce McIvor was a desirable acquisition to the literary staff. He was vanquished. In aught save exact compliance he saw ridicule—the contempt of Fleet Street.
He turned to O’Hagan, pale faced, eyes flaming. Words trembled unspoken upon his tongue.
“Stop!”
O’Hagan spoke the word imperiously, and raised his hand.
“You have bought immunity,” he continued, “in respect of your insults from ‘overdressed puppy’ to ‘bully.’ Any you may utter henceforward I shall deal with separately.”
He strode toward the door; turned in a flash . . . and struck a revolver out of Repton’s hand. Stooping, he picked it from the carpet.
“I shall consider my action in the matter of this murderous assault, Mr. Repton,” he said icily. “My behaviour will largely depend upon your own.”