"I have it," he said. "Eustace, you young rascal, what a scare you have given us!"
"I!" exclaimed Eustace, with a touch of indignation in his tone.
"Yes, you," was the reply. "Why, you fired that first shot yourself; I'll bet you anything you did. You only shot once at the dingo—there are two chambers empty in this revolver. Come, own up; where was the revolver when you went to sleep?"
Eustace flushed crimson as the realization flooded his mind.
"It was in my hand when I jumped out of bed," he said. "I—I do believe I went to sleep holding it. I dropped off suddenly."
He remembered how inexplicably queer and shaken he had felt when he awoke. Now he came to think of it, he had been strangely jarred. A mere sound could scarcely have accounted for the feeling.
"Well, that clears the whole mystery, then," said Robertson. "There is no one lurking about the house, and there hasn't been anything to be frightened about—except that you might have shot your own foot through, and lamed yourself for life."
"He might have killed himself," said Mrs. Orban seriously. "It was a terribly dangerous thing to do."
She said nothing more, for it was evident Eustace felt very small and uncomfortable. It was the tamest possible ending to what had promised to be such a stirring adventure—such a tale to tell!
Presently, when he was left alone to try and get a little sleep before it was time to get up and dress, the full humiliation of it overcame him. What would his father say? and Nesta? and, worse and worse, Bob Cochrane? How he would be laughed at—teased! He would never be allowed to forget the dingo he had mistaken for a black-fellow; and he felt hot all over when he thought of that foolish shot—the cause of all the commotion.