Mr. Thomasson uttered a moan, and one of the waiters stooping over him asked him if he could stand.  He answered only by a faint groan, and the man raising his eyebrows, looked gravely at the landlord; who, recovered from the astonishment into which the fury and suddenness of the assault had thrown him, turned his indignation on Mr. Dunborough.

‘I am surprised at you, sir,’ he cried, rubbing his hands with vexation.  ’I did not think a gentleman in Sir George’s company would act like this!  And in a respectable house!  For shame, sir!  For shame!  Do, some of you,’ he continued to the servants, ’take this gentleman to his room and put him to bed.  And softly with him, do you hear?’

‘I think he has swooned,’ the man answered, who had stooped over him.

The landlord wrung his hands.  ‘Fie, sir—­for shame!’ he said.  ’Stay, Charles; I’ll fetch some brandy.’

He bustled away to do so, and to acquaint Sir George; who through all, and though from his open door he had gathered what was happening, had resolutely held aloof.  The landlord, as he went out, unconsciously evaded Mr. Pomeroy who entered at the same moment from the street.  Ignorant of what was forward—­for his companion’s cries had not reached the stables—­Pomeroy advanced at his ease and was surprised to find the hall, which he had left empty, occupied by a chattering crowd of half-dressed servants; some bending over the prostrate man with lights, some muttering their pity or suggesting remedies; while others again glanced askance at the victor, who, out of bravado rather than for any better reason, maintained his place at the foot of the stairs, and now and then called to them ‘to rub him—­they would not rub that off!’

Mr. Pomeroy did not at first see the fallen man, so thick was the press round him.  Then some one moved, and he did; and the thing that had happened bursting on him, his face, gloomy before, grew black as a thunder-cloud.  He flung the nearest to either side, that he might see the better; and, as they recoiled, ‘Who has done this?’ he cried in a voice low but harsh with rage.  ‘Whose work is this?’ And standing over the tutor he turned himself, looking from one to another.

But the servants knew his reputation, and shrank panic-stricken from his eye; and for a moment no one answered.  Then Mr. Dunborough, who, whatever his faults, was not a coward, took the word.  ’Whose work is it?’ he answered with assumed carelessness.  ’It is my work.  Have you any fault to find with it?’

‘Twenty, puppy!’ the elder man retorted, foaming with rage.  And then, ‘Have I said enough, or do you want me to say more?’ he cried.

‘Quite enough,’ Mr. Dunborough answered calmly.  He had wreaked the worst of his rage on the unlucky tutor.  ‘When you are sober I’ll talk to you.’

Mr. Pomeroy with a frightful oath cursed his impudence.  ’I believe I have to pay you for more than this!’ he panted.  ’Is it you who decoyed a girl from my house to-night?’