“Where is he?”
“They’re—up there now. I’m frightened.”
“Go to bed, my love. Go to bed.”
He carried her up the stairs and fondled her, and put her into bed.
“It’s all right, my love. Go to sleep. Pleasant dreams. It’s all right. Daddy will look after you.”
Then he went downstairs.
A shout of laughter greeted him through the door of the sitting-room. He gripped the handle and walked deliberately in. Ted Woollams was stretching himself luxuriously on the sofa. His heavy sensual face appeared puffy and a little mussed. Clara was lying back in an easy chair, smoking a cigarette. Jim did not speak. He walked up to Ted and without any preliminary explanation struck him full on the nose with his clenched fist. For a moment the boxer appeared more surprised than anything. His eyes narrowed, then the pain of the blow appeared to sting him. He rose from the sofa with a growl. As he advanced upon Jim, the latter thought:
“He’s going to kill me. What a fool I was not to strike him with a poker!”
He thrust out his arms in an ineffectual defense. There was something horribly ugly, ugly and revolting in the animal-like lurch of the man bearing down on him ... the demon of an inevitable doom. Jim struck wildly at the other’s arms, at the same time thinking:
“My little girl! I promised to look after her.”