"Oh, did she? Found your name and address in Peter's pocket, I suppose. Well, she came along last night at the exact psychological moment. The alacrity with which she took dear old drunken Peter off my hands at the merest hint had a certain amount of pathos about it. _He's_ off his immaculate perch now, eh? _He's_ left his tuppenny halo on a pretty sordid hat-peg, at last, eh? He'll thank me for having done it for him one of these days, I'll be bound." Graham went slowly over to him. "Not one of these days," he said with extreme distinctness. "Through me, thank God, to-day--now." Kenyon darted a quick look at the man who had always caused him a considerable amount of inward laughter, whom he had labelled as a precocious provincial. He saw that his face had gone as white as a stone--that his nostrils were all distended and that his eyes seemed to have become bloodshot. No coward, Kenyon had an inherent detestation of a fracas, especially when he was dressed for the street. He decided to avert a row with a touch of autocratic authority. It had worked before. "Let there be no vulgar display of pugilism here," he said, sharply. "If you don't like my methods, get out!" Everything in Graham's nature seemed to have become concentrated in one big ball of desire to hit and hit, and hit again--to hear the heavy thud of his blows on that man's body--to see him lying squirming and broken on the carpet with a receipt in full upon his face for all that he had done. "Put up your fist," he said, "or I shall have to hit you cold." "Curse you, get out!" cried Kenyon, catching Graham one on the mouth before he was ready. Graham laughed. He needed that. By jove, he needed that. He let out his left. "That's for Peter," he said. Kenyon staggered. His left eye seemed to fill. With a yell of pain he jumped in and hit wildly. Graham waited a second chance and got it. "And that's for Belle," he said. And his knuckles bled with the contact of teeth. Kenyon went in again. Chairs fell over and the table was pushed aside. And all the time that he failed to reach Graham's face he screamed like a horse whose stable is in flames. But Graham, cold, icy cold, and cooler than he had ever been in his life, played with him. He had never been so much a man in his life. He warded and guarded and waited hoping that he might once more feel the sting of pain that would make his last blow unforgettable--epoch-making. He got it,--but with Kenyon's foot. And again Graham laughed,--for joy--for very joy. Now he could hit, and hit honestly. "You little gentleman!" he said. "You perfect little gentleman--I've paid you for Peter, and for Belle. Here's my debt, with a hundred per cent, interest and then some." The blow, hard and firm from the full shoulder, caught Kenyon on the point of the jaw, lifted him off his feet and laid him out full stretch on the broad of his back.