But when Ruthven came abreast of the figure in the passage and bowed his
way past, a low voice from the courteous unknown, pronouncing his name,
halted him short.
"I want a word with you, Mr. Ruthven," added Selwyn; "that card-room
will suit me, if you please."
But Ruthven, recovering from the shock of Selwyn's voice, started to
pass him without a word.
"I said that I wanted to speak to you!" repeated Selwyn.
Ruthven, deigning no reply, attempted to shove by him; and Selwyn,
placing one hand flat against the other's shoulder, pushed him violently
back into the card-room he had just left, and, stepping in behind him,
closed and locked the door.
"W-what the devil do you mean!" gasped Ruthven, his hard, minutely
shaven face turning a deep red.
"What I say," replied Selwyn; "that I want a word or two with you."
He stood still for a moment, in the centre of the little room, tall,
gaunt of feature, and very pale. The close, smoky atmosphere of the
place evidently annoyed him; he glanced about at the scattered cards,
the empty oval bottles in their silver stands, the half-burned remains
of cigars on the green-topped table.
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