Part 26 (1/2)

Only just those three words, yet they set him off.

”Ought I? Well, what of yourself? She told me last night things about _you_.”

”About me. What things?”

”Never mind.”

”But I do,” she stopped and he stopped.

”I mind very much. What things did she tell you?”

”Nothing much, only that you worried the life out of her, and that though I was bad you were worse.”

Venetia sniffed. She was just turning to resume her way to the train when she stopped dead like a pointer.

”That's them,” she said, in a hard, tense whisper.

Jones looked.

A veiled lady accompanied by a bearded man, with a folded umbrella under his arm and following a porter laden with wraps and small luggage, were making their way through the crowd towards the train.

The veil did not hide her from him. He knew at once it was she.

It was then that Venetia's effect upon him acted as the contents of the white-paper acts when emptied into the tumbler that holds the blue-paper-half of the seidlitz powder.

Venetia saw his face.

”Don't make a scene,” she cried.

That was the stirring of the spoon.

He rushed up to the bearded man and caught him by the arm. The bearded one turned sharply and pushed him away. He was a big man; he looked a powerful man. Dressed up as a conquering hero he would have played the part to perfection, the sort of man women adore for their ”power” and manliness. He had a cigarette between his thick, red, bearded lips.

Jones wasn't much to look at, but he had practised at odd times at Joe Hennessy's, otherwise known as Ike Snidebaum, of Spring Garden Street, Philadelphia, and he had the fighting pluck of a badger.

He struck out, missed, got a drum sounder in on the left ribs, right under the uplifted umbrella arm and the raised umbrella--and then--swift as light got in an upper cut on the whiskers under the left side of the jaw.

The umbrella man sat down, as men sit when chairs are pulled from under them, then, shouting for help--that was the humorous and pitiable part of it--scrambled on to his feet instantly to be downed again.

Then he lay on his back with arms out, pretending to be mortally injured.

The whole affair lasted only fifteen seconds.

You can fancy the scene.

Jones looked round. Venetia and the criminal, having seen the display--and at the National Sporting Club you often pay five pounds to see worse--were moving away together through the throng, the floored one with arms still out, was murmuring: ”Brandee--brandee,” into the ear of a kneeling porter, and a station policeman was at Jones' side.

Jones took him apart a few steps.

”I am the Earl of Rochester,” said he, in a half whisper. ”That guy has got what he wanted--never mind what he was doing--kick the beast awake and ask him if he wants to prosecute.”