“He says so.”
“Oh! I see. H’m! Brag’s a good dog. He shall have every advantage, as I said before. Well—till this evening.”
McShane went out, sorely puzzled, and heartily wishing he was out of it. In a moment of impulsive good-nature he had consented to act for Truscott when mad with rage. That worthy had given his own version of what had occurred, and besought his good offices; and then, being a thorough Irishman, there was a subtle spell hanging about a row in any shape that was altogether too potent for him, and Truscott happened to be an old schoolfellow of his, though he, McShane, had never liked him much, nor did he now. And if he had cherished any hopes of talking Claverton over, they were scattered now. There was a deadly purpose in the latter’s speech and manner, all the more so because so quiet. No; things must take their chance.
Left to himself, Claverton sat for a few minutes in silent rumination. Then he got up, and, opening a chest, took out a polished wooden case and unlocked it, disclosing a revolver. It was a beautifully-finished weapon, small, but carrying a bullet of the regulation calibre, and on a silver plate let into the ebony handle were graven the initials “H.S.”
“Poor Spalding!” he murmured. “You were going to cut the knot of your difficulties with this little article once, and so am I, but in a different way.”
He scrutinised the weapon narrowly, clicking the lock two or three times, and taking imaginary aim.
The poise was perfect.
How calm and peaceful rides the silver-wheeled chariot of night! How tranquil, in their mysterious distance, shine the golden stars, darting a twinkling glance down into this still, out-of-the-world hollow, where not even the chirp of an insect or the rustle of a disturbed leaf breaks the absolute hush of the night! On the one hand a wall of jagged rock rises to a serrated ridge, standing out sharp and clear; on the other, the sprays of the clustering foliage are photographed in shining distinctness. Above, in a towering background, a great mountain peak rears itself, dim and misty, enflooded in the slumbrous moonlight. A scene of eternal beauty—a holy calm as of another world!
But, lo! Standing within the shade of the thick foliage is the figure of a man—erect, motionless, as though petrified. For nearly an hour has he maintained his immovable attitude; and now a suspicion of a start runs through his frame. He is listening intently, for the ring of a bit and the tramp of hoofs becomes audible. It is one of those nights when the most distant of sounds would seem to be even at one’s elbow; and now this sound draws nearer and nearer, and, in addition, a word or two in smothered tones. The listener’s face wears a ruthless look as two horsemen enter the glade and, reining in, peer cautiously around.