"And when you find him what will you do about it?"
In her place of concealment Moira trembled at the sound. For there was a harsh scraping of chairs as Harry and Quinlevin rose, startled, and faced Jim Horton, who had opened the door of the closet and stood revealed before them.
Harry Horton drew back a pace, leaning on a chair, his face gray, then purple again. Quinlevin stared, one eye squinting, his face distorted in surprise and curiosity at the astonishing apparition.
"So," he said, "the skeleton in the closet!"
"You'll find me far from that," said Jim Horton, striding forward to within a few paces of them. "You thought I might be hard to find. I'll save you that trouble."
"I see," said the Irishman, finding his composure and a smile. "So ye're the interloper—the comic tragedian of the piece, all primed and set for trouble. Well, I can't say that ye'll be disappointed—" He reached deliberately for his trousers pocket and drew out a weapon. But Jim leaped for him at the same time that Moira, rushing into the room, shrieked Quinlevin's name.
The sound disconcerted him and the shot went wild and before he could shoot again Jim Horton had caught his arm and given his wrist a vicious twist which wrenched the weapon away and sent him hurling into a chair. Harry Horton hadn't moved. His feet seemed riveted to the floor.
"Father!" Moira gasped, her face white as paper. "You might have killed him."
"That was the exact intention," said Quinlevin, making a wry face and nursing his wrist.
But Jim Horton, frowning at the two men, held the weapon in his hand, in command of the situation.