As he lifted his hand, something at the very bottom of his soul fought for release. Jason’s face at that moment was a thing he had to challenge, to defy, to surmount. The man’s eternal derision of him had suddenly swollen up, towering, toppling, tremendous⁠ ⁠… like an ice-wall. It had been gathering weight, this wall, for months and months; and here it was! His impressions moved more rapidly at that moment than light-waves travelling from Betelgeuse or from Algol; and one of these vibrations, flashing through his mind, hinted to him that the menace to his “mythology” which Dorsetshire had brought, came through Jason and not through Mr. Urquhart.⁠ ⁠…

“Well⁠ ⁠… here goes!” And he flung the crumpled-up bit of paper over the table, between the two men’s heads, straight at the blazing logs!

His action would have fulfilled his intention to a nicety, if he had not neglected, for the second time that day, to take into account the power of that east wind.