Chapter Thirty Seven.
Slippery Metal.
That cry was from Lilla, who ran to my uncle’s side just as he staggered to a chair, holding his face with both hands.
“Not much hurt, I think,” he gasped; “but it was a close touch—a sort of farewell keepsake,” he said with a faint attempt to smile.
It was, indeed, a narrow escape, for the ball had ploughed one of his cheeks so that it bled profusely, and I could have freely returned the shot in the rage which I felt.
Perhaps it would have been better for all parties had I fired, for it would only have been disabling as black-hearted a scoundrel as ever breathed. But my plans were made, and by an effort I kept to them, just as the notary was about to flee in alarm.
“Loose him, Tom,” I said; and Garcia started up, foaming almost at the mouth. “Keep back there,” I cried, “and do not let me see one of those hands move towards breast or pocket. The instant I detect any such act I fire.”
Garcia stood scowling for a few moments but not meeting my eye, and I continued addressing the notary: