He rose as he spoke, and crossing to the bell rang it. They thought he was speaking in jest and ringing for drinks; they laughed, and Hughie began to yell, yell, and slash the table with his cane in time to what he was yelling. This beast, who was never happy unless smashing glasses, making a noise or tormenting his neighbours, who had never been really sober for the space of some five years, who had destroyed a fine estate, and broken his mother's heart, seemed now endeavouring to break his wanghee cane on the table. The noise was terrific. The door opened and calves appeared. "Throw that ruffian out," said Jones. "Out with him," cried Hughie, throwing away his cane at this joke. "Come on, Stark, let's shove old Jollops out of doors." He advanced to the merry attack, and Stark, livened up by the other, closed in, receiving a blow on the midriff that seated him in the fender. The next moment Hughie found himself caught by a firm hand, that had somehow managed to insert itself between the back of his collar and his neck, gripping the collar. Choking and crowing he was rushed out of the room and across the hall to the front door, a running footman preceding him. The door was opened and he was flung into the street. The ejection of Stark was an easier matter. The hats and coats were flung out and the door shut finally. "If either of those guys comes here again," said Jones to the acolyte, "call an officer--I mean a constable." "Yes, my Lord." "I wonder how many more people I will have to fling out of this house," said he to himself, as he returned to the smoking room. "My God, what a mess that chap Rochester must have made all round. Bar bummers like those! Heu!" He ordered the ink to be cleared up, and then he sent for Mr. Church. He was excited. "Church," said he. "I've shot out two more of that carrion. You know all the men I have been fool enough to know. If they come here again tell the servants not to let them in." But he had another object in sending for Church. "Where's my cheque book?" he asked. Church went to the bureau and opened a lower drawer. "I think you placed it here, my Lord." He produced it. When he was gone Jones opened the book; it was one of Coutt's. He knew his banker now as well as his solicitor. Then he sat down, and taking Rochester's note from his pocket began to study the handwriting and signature. He made a hundred imitations of the signature, and found for the first time in his life that he was not bad at that sort of work. Then he burnt the sheets of paper he had been using, put the cheque book away and looked at the clock; it pointed to eleven. He switched out the lights and left the room, taking his way upstairs.