"You insult me!" screamed M. Lemaire, halting right under the face of
Captain Jack Benson, who looked at him undaunted.
"I didn't," denied Jack. "I let you do that yourself. My congratulations, sir. You certainly know how to insult your own manhood as well as the most confirmed scoundrel could wish!"
"You insult again!" quivered M. Lemaire, his French accent asserting itself. "I s'all make you pay for zat!"
He struck wildly, badly, as a Frenchman does who has no knowledge of boxing. Benson merely warded off the blow, at the same time brushing M. Lemaire back a couple of steps.
"Now, you keep away—Gaston, or whatever your name is!" warned Jack, wheeling upon the chauffeur. "If I lose my temper, some one is going to be hurt."
But that defiance served only to draw the chauffeur on. Raising the wrench, he rushed swiftly at the young submarine captain, aiming a blow at his head.
Just as might have been expected, Jack Benson wasn't there at that instant.
Instead, he dodged nimbly to one side, at the same time driving in a blow that landed under one of the chauffeur's ears. The fellow went to the ground. Swift as a flash Jack bent over him, and snatched up the wrench, hurling it off among the trees.
Then Jack wheeled around to face Mlle. Nadiboff, bowing.
"Don't you attempt to do anything, I beg of you, Mademoiselle," Jack urged. "It would come fearfully hard to have to make even the signs of striking at a woman."