Colorado Jim. George Goodchild
to have said that. It isn’t done.”
“There’s no way out,” whispered Cholmondeley. “You’ll have to apologize.”
A dapper little man, a bosom friend of Meredith’s, hurried forward, bristling with indignation.
“You have grossly insulted a member of this club, sir. We demand an apology,” he said.
“Better apologize,” whispered Claude.
Jim was trying to be a “gentleman,” but the word “liar” from the lips of a card-sharp had pierced the thin veneer that a few months of sophisticated environment had brought about, and scratched into the coarser material beneath. Restraint went to the winds.
“Apologize!” he roared. “Apologize to a swindling tinhorn? I should smile!”
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