"Do you mean to say you believe in it all?" asked Geoffrey.
"Yes, I believe in it all."
"But, good God, man! somebody put the cartridge there. Somebody told you that the summerhouse was on the left——" and he stopped suddenly.
"Yes—Uncle Francis told me that," said Harry, "and who made him forget which was which of the two houses? Why, the Luck, the blessed Luck!" he cried almost exultantly.
At this all the nightmares of the last twelve hours swarmed round Geoffrey, flapping about his head.
"And who put the cartridge in that gun?" he cried, not thinking how direct an accusation he was making.
Harry's face grew suddenly grave; the smile was struck from it. A flash of anger and intense surprise flamed in his eyes, and his upper lip curled back in an ugly way. Then seeing Geoffrey holding on to the table, still dazed and white, he recovered himself.
"Come, old boy," he said, "don't be so much upset. Yet, Geoff, you shouldn't say that sort of thing even in jest. Have a whisky and soda before going out; you're all shaky. Believe in the Luck, like me, and you'll take things more calmly. Yes, I mean it; at last I really mean it. I am the inheritor of a curse and a blessing. So I take the good with the bad, and, oh, how much the one outweighs the other! By the way, the painters are in the house; they must patch up the paper here, and mend that hole in the ceiling. Shall I order a whisky for you at the same time?"
"No; I'm all right," said Geoffrey, and he followed the other out.
Harry was at all times a good shot, to-day he verged on brilliancy. Geoffrey, on the other hand, who as a rule was more than good, to-day was worse than bad. His gun was a laggard; he shot behind crossing game, below anything that was flying straight away from him; he was not certain about the easiest shots, and he was only certain to miss the more difficult ones. It seemed indeed that the two had divided between them the accident in the gun room; the infinitely short moment in which Harry had felt the hot breath of the fire, sharp and agonizing like a pulled tooth, was his, but the reaction, the retarded fear, the subsequent effect on nerve and brain, were entered to Geoffrey. He was utterly unstrung by this double escape; twice during the last twenty-four hours, in this peaceful country house, had Harry looked in the very face of death; yesterday stepping gaily toward the lip of the ice tank; to-day by as little a margin escaping this shattering extinction. A foot more, a foot less—and as he thought of it, Geoffrey bit his lip for fear of screaming—and brain and bone would have been shredded over the gun-room floor. Accidents would happen; there had always been accidents and there always would be, but, unlike misfortunes, they nearly always came singly. What was this malignancy that haunted Harry, dogging his steps? What dim figure, deadly and full of hate, hovered on the wing by him, ready to strike? Cartridges do not automatically find their way to guns that are cleaned and placed in the stand, as dust collects in corners. They have to be placed there, a human hand has to open the breech, stuff it with death, close it, and put the gun down again. These things must inevitably happen before a gun goes off. Who in this case did them?