They were alone on the top of the car, and Melun endeavoured to speak again, but Westerham told him roughly to be silent.
He said no word, indeed, until they were back in the hotel. The captain was beyond protesting; he appeared dazed and cowed by the swiftness with which Westerham had wrested his authority from him and practically fought his way out of Limehouse.
In the little sitting-room, Westerham with great precision poured out a couple of whisky-and-sodas and handed Melun a cigar.
“You will not understand me the better by sulking or skulking,” he said. “I would suggest to you that even if you are not one you had better try to be a man.”
Melun winced, and was about to reply angrily, when Westerham again cut him short.
“Listen to me,” he said sharply. “I realise that while I am associated with you for my own ends I shall have to close my eyes to a great many matters not exactly permitted by the law of this country. That contingency, however, I was from the first prepared to face. There are, however, certain things which you had better at once understand I do not permit.”
“You do not permit!” Melun almost yelled.
“That I do not permit,” repeated Westerham, coldly. “And one of them is such a scene as I have witnessed to-night.”
His sea-green eyes were now blazing, and his mouth was shut like a trap.
“I have been introduced as your friend,” he continued, “and therefore I propose to visit Limehouse whensoever I choose.”