“Of course! Well, this is loaded. That”—she pointed—“is the safety catch. Push it down with your thumb before you start to use it. You had better kill Penne—better for you, and better for him, I think.”
The girl shrank back in horror.
“Oh, no, no!”
“Put it in your pocket—have you a pocket?”
There was one inside the blue cloak the girl was wearing, and into this Stella dropped the pistol.
“You don’t know what sort of sacrifice I’m making,” she said frankly, “and it isn’t as though I’m doing it for somebody I’m fond of, because I’m not particularly fond of you, Adele Leamington. But I wouldn’t be fit to live if I let that brute get you without a struggle.”
And then impulsively she stooped forward and kissed the girl, and Adele put her arms about her neck and clung to her for a second.
“He’s coming,” whispered Stella Mendoza, and stepped back with a gesture.
It was Gregory—Gregory in his scarlet pyjama jacket and purple dressing-gown, his face aflame, his eyes fired with excitement.
“Come on, you!” He crooked his finger. “Not you, Mendoza: you stay here, eh? You can see her after, perhaps—after supper.”