"You, sir." Mr. Langton arose lazily, and stepping to the door, turned the key; then returning to the hearth, in leisurely manner turned back his cuff's. "I have traced the slander to you, and hold the proofs. Perhaps you had best stand up and recant it before you take your hiding. But, whether or no, I am going to hide you," he promised, with his engaging smile. Stooping swiftly he caught up the malacca. Mr. Silk sprang to his feet and snatched at the chair, dodging sideways. "Strike as you please," he snarled; "Ruth Josselin is a--" But before the word could out Batty Langton's first blow beat down his guard. The second fell across his exposed shoulders, the third stunningly on the nape of his neck. The fourth--a back-hander-- welted him full in the face, and the wretched man sank screaming for pity. Batty Langton had no pity. "Stand up, you hound!" he commanded. The command was absurd, and he laughed savagely, tickled by its absurdity even in his fury, while he smote again and again. He showered blows until, between blow and blow, he caught his breath and panted. Mr. Silk's screams had sunk to blubbings and whimpers. Between the strokes he heard them. His valet was knocking timorously on the door. "All right!" called Langton, lifting his cane and lowering it slowly--for his victim lay still. He stooped to drag aside the arm covering the huddled face. As he did so, Mr. Silk snarled again, raised his head and bit blindly, fastening his teeth in the flesh of the left hand. Langton wrenched free and, as the man scrambled to his feet, dealt him with the same hand a smashing blow on the mouth--a blow that sent him reeling, to overbalance and pitch backward to the floor again across an overturned chair. Somehow the pleasure of getting in that blow restored--literally at a stroke--Langton's good temper. He laughed and tossed the cane into a corner. "You may stand up now," said he sweetly. "You are not going to be beaten any more." Mr. Silk stood up. His mouth trickled blood, and he nursed his right wrist, where the cane had smitten across the bone. Langton stepped to the door and, unlocking it, admitted his trembling valet. "My good fool," he said, "didn't I call to you not to be alarmed? Mr. Silk, here, has been seized with a--a kind of epileptic fit. Help him downstairs and call a chair for him. Don't stare; he will not bite again for a very long time." But in this Mr. Langton was mistaken. He took the precaution of cauterising his bitten hand; and before retiring to rest that night contemplated it grimly, holding it out to the warmth of his bachelor fire. It was bandaged; but above the edge of the bandage his knuckles bore evidence how they had retaliated upon Mr. Silk's teeth.