His passion was incredible, insane. The power of speech had almost left him.
“You are a guest of—of Devil Menendez,” he whispered, and the speaking of the name seemed almost to choke him. “Of—Devil Menendez. You—you—are a spy. You have stolen my hospitality—you have obtained access to my house under false pretences. God! if I had known!”
“Mr. Camber,” I said, sternly, and realized that I, too, had clenched my fists, for the man’s language was grossly insulting, “you forget yourself.”
“Perhaps I do,” he muttered, thickly; “and therefore”—he raised a quivering forefinger—“go! If you have any spark of compassion in your breast, go! Leave my house.”
Nostrils dilated, he stood with that quivering finger outstretched, and now having become as speechless as he, I turned and walked rapidly up to the house.
“Ah Tsong! Ah Tsong!” came a cry from behind me in tones which I can only describe as hysterical—“Mr. Knox’s hat and stick. Quickly.”
As I walked in past the study door the Chinaman came to meet me, holding my hat and cane. I took them from him without a word, and, the door being held open by Ah Tsong, walked out on to the road.
My heart was beating rapidly. I did not know what to think nor what to do. This ignominious dismissal afforded an experience new to me. I was humiliated, mortified, but above all, wildly angry.
How far I had gone on my homeward journey I cannot say, when the sound of quickly pattering footsteps intruded upon my wild reverie. I stopped, turned, and there was Ah Tsong almost at my heels.
