Part 30 (2/2)

He rose and took his hat which he had placed on the floor, nodded to the Duke of Melford and turned to the door.

Simms was standing in front of the door.

”Excuse me,” said Simms, ”but I would not advise you to go out in your condition, much better stay here till your nerves have recovered.”

Jones stared at him.

”My nerves are all right,” said he.

”Don't, my dear fellow,” said Cavendish.

Jones turned and looked at him, then turned again to the door.

Simms was barring the way still.

”Don't talk nonsense,” said Jones, ”think I was a baby. I tell you I'm all right--what on earth do you mean--upon my soul, you're like a lot of children.”

He tried to pa.s.s Simms.

”You must not leave this room yet,” said Simms. ”Pray quiet yourself.”

”You mean to say you'll stop me?”

”Yes.”

Then in a flash he knew. These men had not been sent for to attend the Dowager Countess of Rochester, they were alienists, and they considered him to be Rochester--Rochester gone mad.

Right from the first start of his confession he had been taken for a mad man, that was why Venetia had said nothing, that was why the old lady had fainted, that was why his wife--at least Rochester's wife, had run from the room like a blind woman.

He stood appalled for a moment, before this self-evident fact. Then he spoke:

”Open that door--get away from that door.”

”Sit down and _quiet_ yourself,” said Simms, staring him full in the eye, ”you--will--not--leave-this--house.”

It was Simms who sat down, flung away by Jones.

Then Cavendish pinioned him from behind, the Duke of Melford shouted directions, Simms scrambled to his feet, and Jones, having won free of Cavendish, the rough and tumble began.

They fought all over the drawing-room, upsetting jardinieres, little tables, costly china.

Jones' foot went into a china cabinet carrying destruction amongst a concert party of little Dresden figures; Simms' portly behind b.u.mped against a pedestal, bearing a portrait bust of the nineteenth Countess of Rochester, upsetting pedestal and smas.h.i.+ng bust, and the Duke of Melford, fine old sportsman that he was, a.s.sisting in the business with the activity of a boy of eighteen, received a kick in the s.h.i.+n that recalled Eton across a long vista of years.

Then at last they had him down on a sofa, his hands tied behind his back with the Duke's bandanna handkerchief.

Jones had uttered no cry, the others no sound, but the b.u.mping and banging and smas.h.i.+ng had been heard all over the house. A tap came to the door and a voice. The Duke rushed to the door and opened it.

”Nothing,” said he, ”nothing wrong. Off with you.”

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