"Have you taken anything else?" inquired his master.
"Nothing."
"On your honor as a gentleman——'s gentleman?"
Wilkins smiled tremulously.
"Hon my onor, Mr. McAllister."
"Then, go!—You seem to have a penchant for pearls," McAllister added half to himself, as he clasped in his hand the famous necklace. Common humanity to Miss Benson demanded his instant declaration of its possession, but the thought of Wilkins, who had slipped unobtrusively through the door, gave him pause. Let the poor chap have all the time he could get. He'd probably be caught, anyway. Just a question of a few days at most. And what a chance to get even on the Baron!
But meanwhile the service had halted. The butler, a sedate person with white mutton-chops, after waiting nervously a few minutes, started to pass the roast himself.
Miss Benson had been prevailed upon to finish her meal, and after dinner they were all going to have a grand hunt, everywhere. Afterward, if the necklace was not discovered, they would send for a detective from New York.
Suddenly two pistol shots rang out just beside the window. Men's voices were raised in angry shouts. A horse attached to some sort of vehicle galloped down the road. The guests started to their feet. A violent struggle was taking place outside the dining-room door. McAllister sprang up just in time to see the Baron break away from Blair's coachman and cover him with his pistol. The jehu threw up his hands. He was a sorry spectacle, collarless, and without his coat. Damp earth clung to his lower limbs and his defiant eyes glowed under tousled hair, while a bloody, swollen nose protruded between them.
"Here! What's all this?" shouted Blair. "Put up that pistol! Who are you, sir?" Then the host rubbed his eyes and looked again.