"Don't be a fool!" he exclaimed. "You know who I am!"
"Yes, I do," said Braid; "and you're up to no good. Hands up, I say!"
Von Hardenberg held up his hands, and then tried to laugh it off.
"You're mad!" said he more quietly. "Surely you don't imagine I'm a thief?"
"I'm not given much to imagining things," said Braid. "All I know is, you broke in here by force."
As he was speaking, before the last words had left his mouth, von Hardenberg, with a quick and desperate action, had seized the gun by the barrel. There followed a struggle, during which the gun went off.
There was a loud report and a piercing cry, and Jim Braid fell forward on his face. Even as he rolled over upon the ground, a black pool of blood spread slowly across the floor.
The Prussian went to the door and listened. He saw lights appear in the windows of the house, and one or two were thrown open. Near at hand he heard the strong voice of John Braid, the keeper, shouting to his son. On the other side of the bungalow, an under-gamekeeper was hurrying to the place.
Von Hardenberg's face was ashen white. His hands were shaking, his lips moving with strange, convulsive jerks.
He went quickly to the body of the unconscious boy, and, kneeling down, felt Braid's heart.