Wot's the matter with them?” sneered the millionaire. “I'll tell you wot's the bloomin' matter with them, cully! They're marked! Somebody's been cheatin'!”
“God!”
Hector was on his feet. He looked like a panther about to pounce and tear; and Higgins rose, upsetting his chair, stepped back from the table, frightened, white as a sheet, yet obstinate, resolute, repeating over and over again:
“They're marked, them cards! Blyme—they're marked!” and, just as the earl had reached the scene of the quarrel on his staggering old legs, Tollemache threw himself between his younger brother and the Londoner.
“Keep your shirts on, both of you,” he said. “You”—to Hector—“unclench that homicidal fist of yours, and you”—to the financier—“either take back what you said and see what sort of an apology you can make, or …”
“Or—prove it, that wot you mean? Well—you high-falutin', drawlin', blue-blooded jackanypes wot's got more cheek than 'orse sense, I will prove it. Bloody fine goin's-on in your 'ouse, yer lordship,” he turned to the earl; “'ere I accepts yer invitytion like one gent from another, to look at yer blarsted, ruddy, poverty-stricken estyte and tyke it off'n yer 'ands for a season-or two so's you can p'y back some o' yer debts—and—'ere—they asks me to pl'y—them precious sons o' yours—and the cards are …”
“Prove it! G d you—prove it!” Hector's face had turned a dull, coppery red. His black
