"You won't," said I.
Sir Anthony turned to the bell-push by the side of the mantelpiece.
"What's the good of talking to this double-dyed scoundrel?" He pointed to the door. "You infamous liar, get out. And if I ever catch you prowling round this house, I'll set the dogs on you."
Gedge marched to the door and turned on the threshold and shook his fist.
"You'll repent your folly till your dying day!"
"To Hell with you," cried Sir Anthony.
The door slammed. We were left alone. An avalanche of silence overwhelmed us. Heaven knows how long we remained speechless and motionless—I in my wheel-chair, he standing on the hearthrug staring awfully in front of him. At last he drew a deep breath and threw up his arms and flung himself down on a leather-covered couch, where he sat, elbows on knees and his head in his hands. After a while he lifted a drawn face.
"It's true, Duncan," said he, "and you know it."
"I don't know it," I replied stoutly, "any more than you do."
He rose in his nervous way and came swiftly to me and clapped both his hands on my frail shoulders and bent over me—he was a little man, as I have told you—and put his face so close to mine that I could feel his breath on my cheek.