“I’ve already told him that,” said Grandcourt with a shrug of contempt.

The weak, vicious face of the other reddened: 

“What do you mean by taking that tone with me?” he demanded loudly.  “Do you think I won’t make good?” He fumbled around in his clothing for a moment and presently jerked a pistol free—­one of the automatic kind with rubber butt and blued barrel.

“Unless you are drunker than I’ve ever seen you,” said Grandcourt, “you’ll put up that pistol before I do.”

Quest cursed him steadily for a minute:  “Do you think I haven’t got the nerve to use it when m’ honour’s ’volved?  I tell you,” he said thickly, “when m’ honour’s ’volved——­”

“You get drunk, don’t you?” observed Duane.  “What a pitiful pup you are, anyway.  Go to bed.”

Quest stood swaying slightly on his heels and considering Duane with the inquiring solemnity of one who is in process of grasping and digesting an abstruse proposition.

“B-bed?” he repeated; “me?”

“Certainly.  A member of this club disgracefully drunk in the afternoon will certainly hear from the governing board unless he keeps out of sight until he’s sane again.”

“Thank you,” said Quest with owlish condescension; “I’m indebted to you for calling ’tention to m-matters which ‘volve honour of m’ own club and——­”

His voice rambled off into a mutter; he sat or rather fell into an armchair and lay there twitching and mumbling to himself and inspecting his automatic pistol with prominent watery eyes.

“You’d better leave that squirt-gun with me,” said Grandcourt.

Quest refused with an oath, and, leaning forward and hammering the padded chair-arm with his unhealthy looking fist, he broke out into a violent arraignment of Dysart: 

“Damn him!” he yelled, “I’ve written him, I’ve asked for an explanation, I’ve ‘m-manded t’ know why his name’s coupled with my sister’s——­”

Duane leaned over, slammed the door, and turned short on Quest: 

“Shut up!” he said sharply.  “Do you hear!  Shut up!”

“No, I won’t shut up!  I’ll say what I damn please——­”

“Haven’t you any decency at all——­”

“I’ve enough to fix Dysart good and plenty, and I’ll do it!  I’ll—­let go of me, Mallett!—­let go, I tell you or——­”

Duane jerked the pistol from his shaky fingers, and when Quest struggled to his feet with a baffled howl, jammed him back into the chair again and handed the pistol to Grandcourt, who locked it in a bureau drawer and pocketed the key.

“You belong in Matteawan,” said the latter, flinging Quest back into the chair again as the infuriated man still struggled to rise.  “You miserable drunken kid—­do you think you would be enhancing your sister’s reputation by dragging her name into a murder trial?  What are you, anyway?  By God, if I didn’t know your sister as a thoroughbred, I’d have you posted here for a mongrel and sent packing.  The pound is your proper place, not a club-house”; which was an astonishing speech for Delancy Grandcourt.