Railsford stared at him blankly. He had surely misunderstood his words.
“I said,” he repeated, and there was a tremor of excitement in his voice, which afforded his enemy the keenest pleasure—“I said that every word in that letter which refers to me is false. You surely don’t believe it after that?”
“I said,” repeated Mr Bickers, with a fine sneer, “that even that would not convince me.”
Surely the longed-for explosion would come now! He saw Railsford’s face flush and his eyes flash. But before the furious retort escaped from his lips, a wise whisper from somewhere fell between them and robbed the wolf of his prey.
“Then,” said the Master of the Shell, forcing his lips to a smile, “there is not much to be gained by prolonging this interview, is there?”
Mr Bickers was deeply mortified. There was nothing for it now but for him to assume the rôle of aggressor. He would so much have preferred to be the aggrieved.
“Yes, Railsford,” said he, rising from his chair and standing over his enemy. “I dare you to say that you neither know nor suspect the person who assaulted me!”
Railsford felt devoutly thankful he had kept his head. He now dug his hands into his pockets, stretched himself, and replied,—
“You may very safely do that, Bickers.”
It was hard lines for poor Bickers, this. He had worked so hard to get himself an adversary; and here was all his labour being lost!