“Pick it up!” said he, motioning imperiously to the cane on the floor between us.

“Heaven forbid, sir,” said I; “’is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?’”

“I told you to pick it up,” he repeated, thrusting his head towards me; “are you going to do so, or must I make you?” and his nostrils worked more than ever.

For answer I raised my foot and sent the cane spinning across the room.  Somebody laughed, and next moment my hat was knocked from my head.  Before he could strike again, however, I raised my staff, but suddenly remembering its formidable weight, I altered the direction of the blow, and thrust it strongly into the very middle of his gayly flowered waistcoat.  So strongly did I thrust, indeed, that he would have fallen but for the timely assistance of his companion.

“Come, come,” said I, holding him off on the end of my staff, “be calm now, and let us reason together like logical beings.  I knocked down your cane by accident, and you, my hat by intent; very well then, be so good as to return me my property, from the corner yonder, and we will call ‘quits.’”

“No, by gad!” gasped my antagonist, bending almost double, “wait—­only wait until I get—­my wind—­I’ll choke—­the infernal life out of you—­only wait, by gad!”

“Willingly,” said I, “but whatever else you do, you will certainly reach me my hat, otherwise, just so soon as you find yourself sufficiently recovered, I shall endeavor to throw you after it.”  Saying which, I laid aside my staff, and buttoned up my coat.

“Why,” he began, “you infernally low, dusty, ditch-trotting blackguard—­” But his companion, who had been regarding me very closely, twitched him by the sleeve, and whispered something in his ear.  Whatever it was it affected my antagonist strangely, for he grew suddenly very red, and then very white, and abruptly turned his back upon me.

“Are you sure, Mostyn?” said he in an undertone.

“Certain.”

“Well, I’d fight him were he the devil himself!  Pistols perhaps would be—­”

“Don’t be a fool, Harry,” cried the other, and seizing his arm, drew him farther away, and, though they lowered their voices, I caught such fragments as “What of George?” “changes since your time,” “ruin your chances at the start,” “dead shot.”

“Sir,” said I, “my hat—­in the corner yonder.”

Almost to my surprise, the taller of the two crossed the room, followed by his friend, to whom he still spoke in lowered tones, stooped, picked up my hat, and, while the other stood scowling, approached, and handed it to me with a bow.

“That my friend, Sir Harry Mortimer, lost his temper, is regretted both by him and myself,” said he, “but is readily explained by the fact that he has been a long time from London, while I labored under a—­a disadvantage, sir—­until your hat was off.”

Now, as he spoke, his left eyelid flickered twice in rapid succession.