Almost immediately afterwards the door opened through which the baronet had passed. If he had been panic-stricken before, his condition was now pitiable.
“What’s that? What’s that?” he whimpered. “Did somebody shoot?”
“Somebody shot,” said Michael calmly, “and I was the somebody. And the gentlemen you sent into the room to settle accounts with me are very lucky that I confined my firing practice to the lock of your shutter, Penne.”
He saw something white on the ground, and, crossing the room with quick strides, picked it up. It was a scarf of coarse silk, and he smelt it.
“Somebody dropped this in their hurry,” he said. “I guess it was to be used.”
“My dear fellow, I assure you I didn’t know.”
“How is the interesting invalid?” asked Michael with a curl of his lip. “The lunatic lady who screams?”
The man fingered his trembling lips for a moment as though he were trying to control them.
“She’s all right. It was as I—as I thought,” he said; “she had some sort of fit.”
Michael eyed him pensively.