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Page 21
"You thought you had shaken me off! You thought you'd given me the
slip! Well, you're wrong!"
George eyed him coldly.
"I know what's the matter with you," he said. "Someone's been
feeding you meat."
The young man bubbled with fury. His face turned a deeper scarlet.
He gesticulated.
"You blackguard! Where's my sister?"
At this extraordinary remark the world rocked about George dizzily.
The words upset his entire diagnosis of the situation. Until that
moment he had looked upon this man as a Lothario, a pursuer of
damsels. That the other could possibly have any right on his side
had never occurred to him. He felt unmanned by the shock. It seemed
to cut the ground from under his feet.
"Your sister!"
"You heard what I said. Where is she?"
George was still endeavouring to adjust his scattered faculties.
He felt foolish and apologetic. He had imagined himself unassailably
in the right, and it now appeared that he was in the wrong.
For a moment he was about to become conciliatory. Then the
recollection of the girl's panic and her hints at some trouble
which threatened her--presumably through the medium of this man,
brother or no brother--checked him. He did not know what it was all
about, but the one thing that did stand out clearly in the welter
of confused happenings was the girl's need for his assistance.
Whatever might be the rights of the case, he was her accomplice,
and must behave as such.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said.
The young man shook a large, gloved fist in his face.
"You blackguard!"
A rich, deep, soft, soothing voice slid into the heated scene like
the Holy Grail sliding athwart a sunbeam.
"What's all this?"
A vast policeman had materialized from nowhere. He stood beside
them, a living statue of Vigilant Authority. One thumb rested
easily on his broad belt. The fingers of the other hand caressed
lightly a moustache that had caused more heart-burnings among the
gentler sex than any other two moustaches in the C-division. The
eyes above the moustache were stern and questioning.
"What's all this?"
George liked policemen. He knew the way to treat them. His voice,
when he replied, had precisely the correct note of respectful
deference which the Force likes to hear.
"I really couldn't say, officer," he said, with just that air of
having in a time of trouble found a kind elder brother to help him
out of his difficulties which made the constable his ally on the
spot. "I was standing here, when this man suddenly made his
extraordinary attack on me. I wish you would ask him to go away."
The policeman tapped the stout young man on the shoulder.
"This won't do, you know!" he said austerely. "This sort o' thing
won't do, 'ere, you know!"
"Take your hands off me!" snorted Percy.
A frown appeared on the Olympian brow. Jove reached for his
thunderbolts.
"'Ullo! 'Ullo! 'Ullo!" he said in a shocked voice, as of a god
defied by a mortal. "'Ullo! 'Ullo! 'Ul-lo!"
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