Borrowdean started back as though he had received a blow.

“Am I to accept that as a statement of your opinion of me?” he demanded.

“It seems fairly obvious,” Mannering answered, “that such was my intention.”

“You owe your place in public life to me,” Borrowdean exclaimed.

“If I do,” Mannering answered, “do you imagine that I consider myself your debtor?  I tell you that to-day, at this moment, I have no political ambitions.  Before you appeared at Blakely and commenced your underhand scheming, I was a contented, almost a happy man.  You imagined that my reappearance in political life would be beneficial to you, and with that in view, and that only, you set yourself to get me back.  You succeeded!  We won’t say how!  If you are disappointed with the result what concern is that of mine?  You have called yourself my friend.  I have not for some time considered you as such.  I owe you nothing.  I have no feeling for you save one of contempt.  To me you figure as the modern political adventurer, living on his wits and the credulity of other people.  Better see how it will pay you in opposition.”

Borrowdean, a cold-blooded and calculating man, knew for the first time in his life what it was to let his passions govern him.  Every word which this man had spoken was truth, and therefore all the more bitter to hear.  He saw himself beaten and humiliated, outwitted by the man whom he had sought to make his tool.  A slow paroxysm of anger held him rigid.  He was white to the lips.  His nerves and senses were all tingling.  There was red fire before his eyes.

“If your business with me is ended,” Mannering said, waving his hand towards the door, “you will forgive me if I remind you that I am much occupied.”

Borrowdean snatched up the square glass paper cutter from the table, and without a second’s warning he struck Mannering with it full upon the temple.

“Damn you!” he said.

Mannering tried to struggle to his feet, but collapsed, and fell upon the floor.  Borrowdean kicked his prostrate body.

“Now go and form your Cabinet,” he muttered.  “May you wake in hell!”

* * * * *

Borrowdean, who left the study a madman, was a sane person the moment he began to descend the stairs and found himself face to face with a tall, heavily cloaked woman.  The flash of familiar jewels in her hair, something, perhaps, in the quiet stateliness of her movements, betrayed her identity to him.  His heart gave a quick jump.  A sickening fear stole over him.  He barred the way.

“Duchess!” he exclaimed.

She waved him aside with an impatient gesture.  He could see the frown gathering upon her face.

“Sir Leslie!” she replied.  “Please let me pass!  I want to see Mr. Mannering before any one else goes up!”

Sir Leslie drew immediately to one side.

“Pray do not let me detain you,” he said, coolly.  “Between ourselves, I do not think that Mannering is in a fit state to see anybody.  I have not been able to get a coherent word out of him.  He walks all the time backwards and forwards like a man demented.”