He struggled to his feet and in another moment, bumping past me, was half-way to the door. George sprang from his chair and had one foot planted solidly in the way before Beresford could reach the handle.
"Here, where are you off to?" he demanded.
"Something's got to be done about Grayle," was the reply.
"What do you mean?" I asked, for Beresford had the voice, the eyes and the bearing of homicidal mania.
"I'm going to have a word with him," he answered between clenched teeth. "Let me go!"
There was something pitifully incongruous between the purposeful language and the emaciated, consumptive speaker. Grayle, for all his unsound leg, could pluck him up by the ankles and crush in his head against the wall like the shell of an egg.
"Let's hear some more about it first," I said, taking his arm despite a quiver and jerk of protest. "I know Grayle fairly well, and, if you're going to match yourself against him in physical strength, you might just as well try to knock holes in the side of a battleship with your naked fists."
Beresford wriggled against my grip.
"I can have a go at spoiling him first," he cried. "After that, I don't mind what happens."
Their motives were different, but I was vividly reminded of the Cockney Huish preparing to advance, vitriol jar in hand, against the unerring rifle of Attwater. I looked over Beresford's head and lifted my eyebrows at Bertrand, who raised himself in bed and called him twice by name.