Mr. Henshaw ground his teeth. “But where is he?” he inquired.
“He went off with Ted Stokes,” said his wife. “If you're George you'd better go and ask him.”
She prepared to close the window, but Mr. Henshaw's voice arrested her.
“And suppose he is not there?” he said.
Mrs. Henshaw reflected. “If he is not there bring Ted Stokes back with you,” she said at last, “and if he says you're George, I'll let you in.”
The window closed and the light disappeared. Mr. Henshaw waited for some time, but in vain, and, with a very clear idea of the reception he would meet with at the hands of Mr. Stokes, set off to his lodging.
If anything, he had underestimated his friend's powers. Mr. Stokes, rudely disturbed just as he had got into bed, was the incarnation of wrath. He was violent, bitter, and insulting in a breath, but Mr. Henshaw was desperate, and Mr. Stokes, after vowing over and over again that nothing should induce him to accompany him back to his house, was at last so moved by his entreaties that he went upstairs and equipped himself for the journey.
“And, mind, after this I never want to see your face again,” he said, as they walked swiftly back.
Mr. Henshaw made no reply. The events of the day had almost exhausted him, and silence was maintained until they reached the house. Much to his relief he heard somebody moving about upstairs after the first knock and in a very short time the window was gently raised and Mrs. Henshaw looked out.
“What, you've come back?” she said, in a low, intense voice. “Well, of all the impudence! How dare you carry on like this?”