satisfying himself with pointing steadily and meaningly at the door after he had recognized his impromptu visitor.
“'Arf a mo', Mr. Warburton,” began the Cockney.
“Yes, Mr.—oh—Higgins?”—chillily.
“Mr. Warburton,” went on the other, “I bloomin' well knows that you don't like me worth a blarsted damn—if the lydy will forgive my French—and I can't say as I would die of 'eart failure if you'd kick the bucket to-morrow, nor ain't I denyin' as I'd jolly well do you a 'ole lot in the heye if I 'ad 'arf a fair chance. But”—he continued with a magnificent lack of logic—“I ain't the sort to bear a grudge. Not me, so 'elp me! And so I sez to you that if this 'ere Wade or Smith or Brown or Robinson or wotever 'e calls 'is bleedin' self is tryin' to get you into a jolly little gyme of two 'anded poker, my advice to you is wot Punch sed to the young fellow about to be married: “Don't! Because 'e's a thimblerigger—a lousy card sharp! 'E pl'ys with marked cards, see?”
Mr. Preserved Higgins never knew how near to death he was at that moment. For, suddenly, all sobering impulses had ebbed away from Hector's brain, leaving it vacant and dry and crimson, bringing him to the very abyss of raving, tearing, killing brutality.
Just as suddenly he controlled himself. He relaxed his bunched muscles, unclenched his fists. He had promised his father that he would carry on the old tradition of the Wades of Dealle, that, to the end of life, he would bear his brother's guilt. He was helpless, and he knew it.
