In the rather awful silence that followed Anscombe remarked in his cheerful drawl—
“I’m not sure that my addition is quite right; we’ll check that in the morning, but I make out that you two gentlemen owe Quatermain and myself £749 10s.”
“You accursed old fool,” he hissed—there is no other word for it—at Marnham. “How are you going to pay all this money that you have gambled away, drunken beast that you are!”
“Easily enough, you felon,” shouted Marnham. “So,” and thrusting his hand into his pocket he pulled out a number of diamonds which he threw upon the table, adding, “there’s what will cover it twice over, and there are more where they came from, as you know well enough, my medical jailbird.”
“You dare to call me that,” gasped the doctor in a voice laden with fury, so intense that it had deprived him of his reason, “you—you—murderer! Oh! why don’t I kill you as I shall some day?” and lifting his glass, which was half full, he threw the contents into Marnham’s face.
“That’s a nice man for a prospective son-in-law, isn’t he?” exclaimed the old scamp, as, seizing the brandy decanter, he hurled it straight at Rodd’s head, only missing him by an inch.
“Don’t you think you had both better go to bed, gentlemen?” I inquired. “You are saying things you might regret in the morning.”
Apparently they did think it, for without another word they rose and marched off in different directions to their respective rooms, which I heard both of them lock. For my part I collected the I.O.U.‘s; also the diamonds which still lay upon the table, while Anscombe examined the cards.
“Marked, by Jove!” he said. “Oh! my dear Quatermain, never have I had such an amusing evening in all my life.”
“Shut up, you silly idiot,” I answered. “There’ll be murder done over this business, and I only hope it won’t be on us.”
It might be thought that after all this there would have been a painful explanation on the following morning, but nothing of the sort happened. After all the greatest art is the art of ignoring things, without which the world could scarcely go on, even among the savage races. Thus on this occasion the two chief actors in the scene of the previous night pretended that they had forgotten what took place, as I believe, to a large extent truly. The fierce flame of drink in the one and of passion in the other had burnt the web of remembrance to ashes. They knew that something unpleasant had occurred and its main outlines; the rest had vanished away; perhaps because they knew also that they were not responsible for what they said and did, and therefore that what occurred had no right to a permanent niche in their memories. It was, as it were, something outside of their normal selves. At least so I conjectured, and their conduct seemed to give colour to my guess.