Arthur hesitated. For the first time he seemed uneasy. Removing the articles from the cardboard box, he examined them. He bent the rubber dagger back and forth. Suddenly he broke open the magazine of the revolver, drew out and scrutinized each dummy bullet before shutting up the magazine again.
Then, as though sneering at himself, he walked across and put the revolver and dagger on the little table.
He was returning to the group by the easy chair, his footfalls clacking loudly, when they suffered an interruption. The door to the hall opened. Daisy the maid, put her head in.
"Please, sir—" she began.
Arthur turned on her.
"What the devil do you mean by coining in here?" he demanded. His normal voice sounded loud, hard, and harsh against the still-clinging quiet. "I told you—"
Daisy shied back, but stuck it out. "I couldn't help it, sir! There's a man outside, asking for Mr. Hubert, and he won't go away. He says his name's Donald Mac-Donald. He says—"
Arthur turned to Hubert.
"Is that…" Arthur swallowed, but was compelled to complete the sentence. "Is that your bookmaker again?"
"I regret, my dear boy," Hubert conceded, "that such appears to be the fact. Doubtless Mr. MacDonald will be forgiven his sins in a better world (including, let us hope, his avarice), but at the moment I fear he is vulgar enough to want money. A slight miscalculation on my part, despite information straight from the stable-"