There was a pause, Drayton took the letter from the lawyer's hands, folded it carefully, and put it in his fob-pocket. Then he peered into Hugh Ritson's face with a leer of triumph. Bonnithorne had slunk aside. The guests were silent.
"D'ye hear?" said Drayton, "the son is legitimate." He gloated over the words, and tapped his pocket as he repeated them. "What d'ye say to it, eh?"
At first Hugh Ritson struggled visibly for composure, and in an instant his face was like marble. Drayton came close to him.
"You were going to give me the go-by, eh? Turn me out-o'-doors, eh? Damme, it's my turn now, so it is!"
So saying, Drayton stepped to the door and flung it open.
"This house is mine," he said; "go, and be damned to you!"
At this unexpected blow, Hugh Ritson beat the ground with his foot. He looked round at the strangers, and felt like a wretch who was gagged and might say nothing. Then he halted to where Drayton stood with outstretched arm.
"Let me have a word with you in private," he said in a voice that was scarcely audible.
Drayton lifted his hand, and his fist was clinched.
"Not a syllable!" he said. His accent was brutal and frenzied.