"It's a lie," retorted Alban, quietly--and then unable to restrain himself he added quickly, "a groom's lie and you know it."
Forrest, sobered in a moment by the accusation, sprang up from his chair as though stung by the lash of a whip.
"What's that," he cried, "what do you say?"
"That you are not the son of Sir John Forrest at all. Your real name is Weston--your father was a jockey and you were born at Royston near Cambridge. That's what I say. Answer it when you like--but not in this house, for you won't have the opportunity. There's the door and that's your road. Now step out before I make you."
He pointed to the open door and drew a little nearer to his slim antagonist. Forrest, a smile still upon his face, stood for an instant irresolute--then recovering himself, he threw the glass he held as though it had been a ball, and the missile, striking Alban upon the forehead, cut him as a knife would have done.
"You puppy, you gutter-snipe--I'll show you who I am. Wipe that off if you can;" and then almost shouting, he cried, "Here, Anna, come down and see what I've done to your little ewe lamb, come down and comfort him--Anna, do you hear?"
He said no more, for Alban had him by the throat, leaping upon him with the ferocity of a wild beast and carrying him headlong to the lawn before the windows. Never in his life had such a paroxysm of anger overtaken the boy or one which mastered him so utterly. Blindly he struck; his blows rained upon the cowering face as though he would beat it out of all recognition. He knew not wholly why he thus acted if not upon some impulse which would avenge the wrongs good women had suffered at the hands of such an impostor as this. When he desisted, the man lay almost insensible upon the grass at his feet--and he, drawing apart, felt the hot tears running down his face and could not restrain them.
For in a measure he felt that his very chivalry had been faithless to one who had loved him well--and in the degradation of that violent scene he recalled the spirit of the melancholy years, the atmosphere of the mean streets, and the figure of little Lois Boriskoff asking both his pity and his love.