“What is that?” asked Myra Davis, taking a quick step toward him. “Are you hurt?”
“It is nothing,” said Jeneski impatiently; “less than nothing; just one of the misadventures which delayed me.” Then a little smile flitted across his lips, and he looked at the baron. “I confess, however, that I did not suppose the Baron Lappo would descend to methods so—so primitive.”
“What do you mean, sir?” demanded the baron.
“Was it not you,” asked Jeneski, still smiling, “who posted that big Englishman on the platform up yonder to shoot me as I left the train?”
The baron’s face was livid.
“M. Jeneski,” he began, “I swear to you....”
“It was not the baron,” put in Selden quickly. “It was the Countess Rémond. I knew she was driving Halsey on to something—but I never guessed....”
“Ah, well, I should have guessed,” said Jeneski. “I apologize to you, M. le Baron. After all, it is nothing—a scratch across the arm. I had time to bandage it but hastily, so it bleeds a little. I am sorry.”
There was a moment’s pause. Then Myra Davis released herself from her mother’s grasp and turned to Baron Lappo.
“Is it true,” she asked, “what he said about that—that affair?”