“Yes,” she made listless reply. “I’m a bit done up. I didn’t realize it till a minute ago. Good night.”
“Excuse me,” he said uncomfortably, “but have you and Miss Gregg got a gun of any sort with you in your luggage?”
“Why, no,” she said. “We don’t own such a thing between us. Auntie won’t have a pistol in the house. It’s a whim of hers.”
“So you go unprotected, just for a woman’s whim?”
“You don’t know Aunt Hester. She is a woman of iron whim,” said Doris with tired flippancy. “So we live weaponless. We—”
“Then—just as a favor to a crotchety host whose own nerves are jumpy on your account—won’t you take this upstairs with you and keep it handy, alongside your bed? Please do.”
He had gone to the Sheraton lowboy which did duty as a hall table. From the bottom of one of its drawers he took a small-caliber revolver.
“I keep this here as a balm to Horoson’s feelings,” he explained. “Out in the hills, like this, she’s always quite certain we’ll be attacked some day by brigands or Black Handers or some other equally mythical foes. And it comforts her to know there’s a pistol in the hall. Take it, please.”
“What nonsense!” she laughed—and there was a tinge of nerve-fatigue in the laugh. “Of course I shan’t take it. Why should I?”
“Just to please me, if there’s no better reason,” he begged.