But he was angry enough to hide his fear for the
present. He determined that Rolls should not get a word out of him.
"That's _all_ you want to hear, is it?" he mimicked. "If you know so
much about her, you can jolly well find out the rest for yourself or
keep off the grass. I don't intend---"
The sentence ended in an absurd gurgle, for the hand of Peter Rolls
was twisting his high collar. It was horribly uncomfortable and made
him feel ridiculous, because he was taller and bigger and older than
Rolls. He tried to hit Peter in the face with his fist, but suddenly
all strength went out of him. The hated face vanished behind a shower
of sparks.
"You're murdering--me!" he gasped. "I've--got--a weak heart."
Peter let go and flung him across the room. He tottered toward the
door. And his servant, who had been breathlessly listening outside,
opened it opportunely on the instant. Logan saw his chance, as Sims
meant him to do, half fell, half staggered out, and the door slammed
in Peter's face.
It took the latter no more than thirty seconds to wrench it open again
and drag Sims, who was holding desperately to the knob, into the
dining-room.
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