“Rafford Townsend!” exclaimed Hartley, with a grim tightening of his jaw. “How did that man come to know you? After all I’ve done for him———”
“His auto has just stopped below,” said Vivienne, bending over the window-sill. “He’s coming for his answer. Oh, I don’t know what to do!”
The bell in the flat kitchen whirred. Vivienne hurried to press the latch button.
“Stay here,” said Hartley. “I will meet him in the hall.”
Townsend, looking like a Spanish grandee in his light tweeds, Panama hut and curling black mustache, came up the stairs three at a time. He stopped at sight of Hartley and looked foolish.
“Go back,” said Hartley, firmly, pointing downstairs with his forefinger.
“Hullo!” said Townsend, feigning surprise. “What’s up? What are you doing here, old man?”
“Go back,” repeated Hartley, inflexibly. “The Law of the Jungle. Do you want the Pack to tear you in pieces? The kill is mine.”
“I came here to see a plumber about the bathroom connections,” said Townsend, bravely.
“All right,” said Hartley. “You shall have that lying plaster to stick upon your traitorous soul. But, go back.”
Townsend went downstairs, leaving a bitter word to be wafted up the draught of the staircase. Hartley went back to his wooing.
