He looked at me with malicious glee. “Aha, Julius, I did frighten you last night then, after all! You pretended to be very scornful, but I did make an impression! Or else why do you question me about my revolver?”
“I didn’t believe a word of that nonsense you hinted at last night,” I protested. “But what do you want with your revolver?”
“My dear fellow, I don’t want to boast of my wealth, but there’s a considerable sum of money in my bureau—very considerable. No harm in being on the safe side, is there?”
That seemed reasonable: his manner too changed suddenly from derision to a plausible common sense. “Possessing a revolver—as most of us who served do—doesn’t mean that one intends to use it—on oneself or on anybody else, does it?”
I felt at a loss. When he wanted me to believe, I didn’t. When he wanted me not to believe, I did—or, at all events, half did. With Arsenio the plausible sensible explanation was always suspect; to be merely sensible was so contrary to his nature.
The busy men had apparently finished their ridiculous work. Louis came in and looked round with a satisfied air.
“Splendid, Louis!” said Arsenio. “Here, take this thing and put it on the bureau in my room.” As Louis obediently took the revolver and left us alone together, Arsenio added to me: “Don’t spoil your dinner—a good one, I hope, for these hungry days—by taking seriously anything I said last night. Perhaps in the end I did mean—No, I didn’t really. I was wrought up. My friend, wasn’t it natural?”
Well, it was natural, of course. On a man prone to what Lucinda had called “heroics” the hour in which she had given him that kiss—the kiss of farewell, as we had both interpreted it to be—would naturally induce them. I should have been disposed to accept his disclaimer of any desperate intentions, except for the fact that somehow he still seemed to be watching me, watching what effect his words had on me, and rather curiously anxious to efface the impression which the sudden appearance of the revolver had made upon me.
“Last night—yes!” He dropped into a chair. “Her action affected me strangely. It is long since she kissed me. And then to kiss me like that! Can you wonder that I gave way?” He smiled up at me. “One doesn’t easily part from Lucinda. Why, you told me that Waldo—our old Waldo—went nearly mad with rage when I took her from him.” His brows went up and he smiled. “It needed a European War to save me, you said! Well, if my excitements are not as tremendous as Waldo’s, I must admit that they are more frequent. But to-day I’ve come to my senses. Pray believe me, my dear Julius—and don’t let any absurd notion spoil your dinner.”
He was very anxious to convince me. My mind obstinately urged the question: Was he afraid that I might watch him, that I might interfere with his plan? I tried to shake off the notion—not quite successfully. I had a feeling that “heroics” might be like strong drink; a man could indulge in a lot of them, and yet be master of them—and of himself. But there might come a point where they would gain the mastery, and he would be a slave. In which case——