“It happened once,” came hoarsely from the throat of James Brood. “It shall not happen again. Thank you, Ranjab.”
Then Frederic knew. The Hindu had slipped a revolver into his master's hand!
“It gives me great pleasure, Yvonne, to relieve you of that worthless thing you call your life.”
As he raised his arm Frederic sprang forward with a shout of horror. Scarcely realising what he did, he hurled Yvonne violently to one side.
It was all over in the twinkling of an eye. There was a flash, the crash of an explosion, a puff of smoke, and the smell of burned powder.
Frederic stood perfectly still for an instant, facing the soft cloud that rose from the pistol-barrel, an expression of vague amazement in his face. Then his hand went uncertainly to his breast.
Already James Brood had seen the red blotch that spread with incredible swiftness—blood-red against the snowy white of the broad shirt bosom. Glaring with wide-open eyes at the horrid spot, he stood there with the pistol still levelled.
“Good God, father, you've—why, you've———” struggled from Frederic's writhing lips, and then his knees sagged; an instant later they gave way with a rush and he dropped heavily to the floor.
There was not a sound in the room. Suddenly Brood made a movement, quick and spasmodic. At the same instant Ranjab flung himself forward and grasped his master's arm. He had turned the revolver upon himself! The muzzle was almost at his temple when the Hindu seized his hand in a grip of iron.
“Sahib! Sahib!” he hissed. “What would you do?” Wrenching the weapon from the stiff, unresisting fingers, he hurled it across the room.