Now then, no more words!--back
you turn!"
Copplestone's temper had been gradually rising during the last few
minutes. Now, at the man's carefully measured taunts, he let it go.
Before Chatfield or the labourers saw what he was at, he sprang on the
agent's big form, grasped him by the neck with one hand, twisted his oak
staff away from him with the other, flung him headlong on the turf, and
raised the staff threateningly.
"Now!" he said, "beg Miss Greyle's pardon, instantly, or I'll split your
wicked old head for you. Quick, man--I mean it!"
Before Chatfield, moaning and groaning, could find his voice capable
of words, Marston Greyle, pale and excited, came round a corner of
the ruins.
"What's this, what's all this?" he demanded. "Here, yon sir, what are
you doing with that stick! What--"
"I'm about to chastise your agent for his scoundrelly insolence to your
cousin," retorted Copplestone with cheerful determination. "Now then, my
man, quick--I always keep my word!"
"Hand the stick to Mr. Marston Greyle, Mr. Copplestone," said Audrey in
her demurest manner. "I'm sure he would beat Chatfield soundly if he had
heard what he said to me--his cousin."
"Thank you, but I'm in possession," said Copplestone, grimly. "Mr.
Marston Greyle can kick him when I've thrashed him. Now, then--are you
going to beg Miss Greyle's pardon, you hoary sinner?"
"What on earth is it all about?" exclaimed Greyle, obviously upset and
afraid.
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