Jadwin beat his fist upon the arm of his chair. His voice was almost a shout as he answered:

“ You⁠—sold⁠—him⁠—out. I know you. I know the kind of bug you are. You ruined him to save your own dirty hide, and all his life since poor old Hargus has been living off the charity of the boys down here, pinched and hungry and neglected, and getting on, God knows how; yes, and supporting his little niece, too, while you, you have been loafing about your clubs, and sprawling on your steam yachts, and dangling round after your kept women⁠—on the money you stole from him.”

Scannel squared himself in his chair, his little eyes twinkling.

“Look here,” he cried, furiously, “I don’t take that kind of talk from the best man that ever wore shoe-leather. Cut it out, understand? Cut it out.”

Jadwin’s lower jaw set with a menacing click; aggressive, masterful, he leaned forward.