Mr. Dunborough laughed aloud.  ‘No, but it was I sent her there,’ he said.  He had the advantage of knowledge.  ’And if I had brought her away again, it would have been nothing to you.’

The answer staggered Bully Pomeroy in the midst of his rage.

‘Who are you?’ he cried.

‘Ask your friend there!’ Dunborough retorted with disdain.  ’I’ve written my name on him!  It should be pretty plain to read’; and he turned on his heel to go upstairs.

Pomeroy took two steps forward, laid his hand on the other’s shoulder, and, big man as he was, turned him round.  ’Will you give me satisfaction?’ he cried.

Dunborough’s eyes met his.  ‘So that is your tone, is it?’ he said slowly; and he reached for the tankard of ale that had been brought to him, and that now stood on a chest at the foot of the stairs.

But Mr. Pomeroy’s hand was on the pot first; in a second its contents were in Dunborough’s face and dripping from his cravat.  ’Now will you fight?’ Bully Pomeroy cried; and as if he knew his man, and that he had done enough, he turned his back on the stairs and strode first into the Yarmouth.

Two or three women screamed as they saw the liquor thrown, and a waiter ran for the landlord.  A second drawer, more courageous, cried, ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen—­for God’s sake, gentlemen!’ and threw himself between the younger man and the door of the room.  But Dunborough, his face flushed with anger, took him by the shoulder, and sent him spinning; then with an oath he followed the other into the Yarmouth, and slammed the door in the faces of the crowd.  They heard the key turned.

‘My God!’ the waiter who had interfered cried, his face white, ’there will be murder done!’ And he sped away for the kitchen poker that he might break in the door.  He had known such a case before.  Another ran to seek the gentleman upstairs.  The others drew round the door and stooped to listen; a moment, and the sound they feared reached their ears—­the grinding of steel, the trampling of leaping feet, now a yell and now a taunting laugh.  The sounds were too much for one of the men who heard them:  he beat on the door with his fists.  ‘Gentlemen!’ he cried, his voice quavering, ‘for the Lord’s sake don’t, gentlemen!  Don’t!’ On which one of the women who had shrieked fell on the floor in wild hysterics.

That brought to a pitch the horror without the room, where lights shone on frightened faces and huddled forms.  In the height of it the landlord and Sir George appeared.  The woman’s screams were so violent that it was rather from the attitude of the group about the door than from anything they could hear that the two took in the position.  The instant they did so Sir George signed to the servants to stand aside, and drew back to hurl himself against the door.  A cry that the poker was come, and that with this they could burst the lock with ease, stayed him just in time—­and fortunately; for as they went to adjust the point of the tool between the lock and the jamb the nearest man cried ‘Hush!’ and raised his hand, the door creaked, and in a moment opened inwards.  On the threshold, supporting himself by the door, stood Mr. Dunborough, his face damp and pale, his eyes furtive and full of a strange horror.  He looked at Sir George.