atherton did not wait to see who might or might not be present, but, without even pausing to take breath, he broke into full cry on the instant,—as is occasionally his wont.
‘champnell!—thank goodness i’ve found you in!—i want you!—at once!—don’t stop to talk, but stick your hat on, and put your best foot forward,—i’ll tell you all about it in the cab.’
i endeavoured to call his attention to mr lessingham’s presence,—but without success.
‘my dear fellow—’
when i had got as far as that he cut me short.
‘don’t “dear fellow” me!—none of your jabber! and none of your excuses either! i don’t care if you’ve got an engagement with the queen, you’ll have to chuck it. where’s that dashed hat of yours,—or are you going without it? don’t i tell you that every second cut to waste may mean the difference between life and death?—do you want me to drag you down to the cab by the hair of your head?’
‘i will try not to constrain you to quite so drastic a resource,—and i was coming to you at once in any case. i only want to call your attention to the fact that i am not alone.—here is mr lessingham.’
in his harum-scarum haste mr lessingham had gone unnoticed. now that his observation was particularly directed to him, atherton started, turned, and glared at my latest client in a fashion which was scarcely flattering.
‘oh!—it’s you, is it?—what the deuce are you doing here?’
before lessingham could reply to this most unceremonious query, atherton, rushing forward, gripped him by the arm.
‘have you seen her?’
lessingham, not unnaturally nonplussed by the other’s curious conduct, stared at him in unmistakable amazement.
‘have i seen whom?’
‘marjorie lindon!’
‘marjorie lindon?’
lessingham paused. he was evidently asking himself what the inquiry meant.
‘i have not seen miss lindon since last night. why do you ask?’
‘then heaven help us!—as i’m a living man i believe he, she, or it has got her!’
his words were incomprehensible enough to stand in copious need of explanation,—as mr lessingham plainly thought.
‘what is it that you mean, sir?’
‘what i say,—i believe that that oriental friend of yours has got her in her clutches,—if it is a “her;” goodness alone knows what the infernal conjurer’s real sex may be.’
‘atherton!—explain yourself!’
on a sudden lessingham’s tones rang out like a trumpet call.
‘if damage comes to her i shall be fit to cut my throat,—and yours!’
mr lessingham’s next proceeding surprised me,—i imagine it surprised atherton still more. springing at sydney like a tiger, he caught him by the throat.
‘you—you hound! of what wretched folly have you been guilty? if so much as a hair of her head is injured you shall repay it me ten thousandfold!—you mischief-making, intermeddling, jealous fool!’
he shook sydney as if he had been a rat,—then flung him from him headlong on to the floor. it reminded me of nothing so much as othello’s treatment of iago. never had i seen a man so transformed by rage. lessingham seemed to have positively increased in stature. as he stood glowering down at the prostrate sydney, he might have stood for a materialistic conception of human retribution.
sydney, i take it, was rather surprised than hurt. for a moment or two he lay quite still. then, lifting his head, he looked up his assailant. then, raising himself to his feet, he shook himself,—as if with a view of learning if all his bones were whole. putting his hands up to his neck, he rubbed it, gently. and he grinned.
‘by god, lessingham, there’s more in you than i thought. after all, you are a man. there’s some holding power in those wrists of yours,—they’ve nearly broken my neck. when this business is finished, i should like to put on the gloves with you, and fight it out. you’re clean wasted upon politics.—damn it, man, give me your hand!’
mr lessingham did not give him his hand. atherton took it,—and gave it a hearty shake with both of his.
if the first paroxysm of his passion had passed, lessingham was still sufficiently stern.
‘be so good as not to trifle, mr atherton. if what you say is correct, and the wretch to whom you allude really has miss lindon at her mercy, then the woman i love—and whom you also pretend to love!—stands in imminent peril not only of a ghastly death, but of what is infinitely worse than death.’
‘the deuce she does!’ atherton wheeled round towards me. ‘champnell, haven’t you got that dashed hat of yours yet? don’t stand there like a tailor’s dummy, keeping me on tenter-hooks,—move yourself! i’ll tell you all about it in the cab.—and, lessingham, if you’ll come with us i’ll tell you too.’
