Isaac Bernstein. He seemed to be half-beside himself with excitement; he grasped me with a vigour which was perhaps unconscious.
"Have the goodness, Mr. Bernstein, to release my arm."
He burst into voluble speech.
"This is more than I can stand, and I'm not going to have it. Don't touch me, or I'll call for help. There are policemen close by and I'm not without protection! Even a worm will turn, and now I'm going to; so just you listen to what I've got to say."
"Your affairs, Mr. Bernstein, have no interest for me. Did you hear me ask you to release my arm?"
"It's as much your affair as it is mine—every bit as much." He waved his umbrella. "There's Lawrence there."
"Who?"
"Lawrence! He's been trying to do a bolt—to Ostend or some infernal place or other, the other side of the world, for all I know—meaning to dish me as he's done the rest of you. But I was on to him. He'd have been off in spite of me only he was drunk, or mad, or something, and they wouldn't have him in the train. Now he's behaving like a howling lunatic." Releasing my arm, Mr. Bernstein took off his hat to wipe his brow. "I believe he's raving mad. That's him!
