Several panes of glass in the window had been shattered by the concussion, and Harry pointed the gun out.
"Now for the second barrel," he said, and the click of the falling trigger was the only answer. He opened the breech, and took out the smoking cartridge case.
"One cartridge only," he said; then, looking down the barrels, "and the left barrel is clean. It looks rather as if the gun had been cleaned, and a cartridge put in afterward. Odd thing to happen. Now we'll go shooting, Geoff!"
But Geoffrey was holding on to the table, trembling violently.
"You're not hurt?" he said.
"No. I shouldn't go shooting if I were. Come, old chap, pull yourself together: there's no harm done. I shall make inquiries about this. Don't you say anything, Geoff. I am going to look into it thoroughly, detective fashion."
"But—but aren't you frightened?" asked Geoffrey feebly.
"No, funnily enough, I'm not. It's the Luck: I firmly believe it's the Luck, and the poor old devil who put the curse in it is doing things in a thoroughly futile manner. I am ashamed of him."
"Ah, destroy the beastly thing!" cried Geoffrey. "Burn it, smash it, chuck it away!"
"Not I. Oh, it's cheap, it's awfully cheap! A hole in the ceiling, and a penny for the cartridge, and November coming closer."