“Damn your impudence!” cried the other. “You were always a crack-brained fellow. What’s your game now, that you force your way into my room like this and lock me in? Do you want to murder me?”
“I am not quite sure,” said Comethup, with a strange little laugh. “It might come to that, perhaps; it depends upon yourself—Come away from that bell”—for Brian had made a dash at the white electric button in the wall—“or, by God, I’ll strangle you before any one can get this door open! And I’m a stronger man than you are; I’ve had a better training.”
Brian came back to the dressing table in a sidelong, furtive fashion, watching Comethup narrowly. “Well, what do you wish? I don’t want to have a scene, and I may tell you that I have no time to waste. I’m going out.”
“Not yet,” replied Comethup. “You’ve lots of time before we catch the night train.”
“The night train!” echoed Brian. “What the devil do I want with the night train?”
“To take you back to London,” said Comethup calmly. “I’m just going to explain, and it will be well for you to listen quietly. I know that it’s quite useless to appeal to you; I’ve learned that long since. So now I’ll put it more brutally, and tell you what you must do.”
“Go on,” said Brian sneeringly; “when one deals with a madman I suppose the best way is to humour him; at least I’ve always been told so.”
“I don’t want to say anything about myself; that would be rather out of place,” began Comethup in his slow, soft voice. “But I want to speak of some one else—of your wife. I heard, quite by accident, that you had deserted her; left her, for aught that you cared, to starve; that you had come here after another woman. I suppose you won’t—won’t think it worth while to deny all that?”
“Why should I? You seem to have got the story pretty accurately. What’s it to do with you?”