“Are you engaged to Miss Jeanie Bruce?”
“I am not.”
“Then, sir, as a gentleman, you have no right to wear that ring.”
I had heard vague stories of firing through one’s coat pocket; and I felt in mine for the little revolver Jeanie had given me. But the miserable little toy was turned the wrong way, and I could not twist it about.
“He is engaged to me—he is,” cried Jeanie, bursting out from the front door. “He asked me on the train.”
“And you refused me,” I said, turning my eyes for one moment away from Bruce to look at her.
“I did not—I only——”
How it happened, I do not know; but at that instant the confounded revolver went off in my pocket. With a cry, Jeanie threw up her arms and fell upon the floor of the piazza. Bruce and I were at her feet instantly. Mrs. Pennoyer rushed out. The neighbors rushed across from over the way.
“Is she killed?” said Bruce and I, together.
As we spoke Jeanie made a dart, and picking up Bruce’s revolver, which he had dropped upon the grass, threw it over a high board fence into the neighboring lot. Then turning, “Give me your ring,” said she.