The landlord, as he went out, unconsciously
evaded Mr. Pomeroy who entered at the same moment from the street.
Ignorant of what was forward--for his companion's cries had not reached
the stables--Pomeroy advanced at his ease and was surprised to find the
hall, which he had left empty, occupied by a chattering crowd of
half-dressed servants; some bending over the prostrate man with lights,
some muttering their pity or suggesting remedies; while others again
glanced askance at the victor, who, out of bravado rather than for any
better reason, maintained his place at the foot of the stairs, and now
and then called to them 'to rub him--they would not rub that off!'

Mr. Pomeroy did not at first see the fallen man, so thick was the press
round him. Then some one moved, and he did; and the thing that had
happened bursting on him, his face, gloomy before, grew black as a
thunder-cloud. He flung the nearest to either side, that he might see
the better; and, as they recoiled, 'Who has done this?' he cried in a
voice low but harsh with rage. 'Whose work is this?' And standing over
the tutor he turned himself, looking from one to another.

But the servants knew his reputation, and shrank panic-stricken from his
eye; and for a moment no one answered. Then Mr. Dunborough, who,
whatever his faults, was not a coward, took the word. 'Whose work is
it?' he answered with assumed carelessness. 'It is my work. Have you any
fault to find with it?'

'Twenty, puppy!' the elder man retorted, foaming with rage. And then,
'Have I said enough, or do you want me to say more?' he cried.

'Quite enough,' Mr. Dunborough answered calmly. He had wreaked the worst
of his rage on the unlucky tutor. 'When you are sober I'll talk to you.'

Mr. Pomeroy with a frightful oath cursed his impudence. 'I believe I
have to pay you for more than this!' he panted. 'Is it you who decoyed a
girl from my house to-night?'

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