For some time he seemed not to see her, though he looked at her. He sat
glooming, like a man dumb in high fever, working his lower jaw, screwing
and unscrewing his hands. Afterwards she believed that he had been groping
for the cruellest thing he could say, and was goaded into what he did say
by the sense that he could find nothing.
"So that was your work? Your choice way! To set one of my own servants to
club me."
She looked at him blankly; but her face glowed with sudden fire. "I
haven't the least notion what you mean. Who has clubbed you?"
His eyes flickered. "Glyde. Your friend. You seek your champions all
about, it seems. You make things snug for yourself. It's master or man
with you--it's all one."
He spluttered his venom broadcast. She held up her head. "Are you
insulting me?" He wheeled round full in his chair.
"Is it possible to insult you?"
At that she lowered her panoply of fire, and grew still. "I see that you
are. I can't allow that."
He foamed. "Bullies in your hire. Now I see what Bill Chevenix was after.
And Glyde-faugh! who else?"
She watched him steadily without fear or disgust. His words held no
meaning for her. "I think you must be mad," she said.
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