"'I did,' he said. 'Not but that I had had revenge enough. I had made you ridiculous—you with your damned superior airs—like that infant phenomenon cousin of yours who is making the family ass of himself over Julia Kaye—'
"Those were his last words. I pulled the pistol and fired straight into his abdomen—knew I couldn't miss him there.
"God! what a commotion there was. He doubled up with a yell—just like him. The men fairly bounded out of their chairs. There were two waiters in the room—just come in with Apollinaris. Raglin slammed the doors to, and, while Ormond and Hethrington laid Brathland out on a sofa, asked the servants if they would hold their tongues until it was known whether he would die or not. They assented readily enough, knowing how damned well worth their while it was. Then he went off for a surgeon—didn't dare telephone—went straight for a young fellow named Ballast he happened to know, and asked him if he would probe for a bullet and call it appendicitis, for a thousand pounds. Apparently there was no time wasted in argument, for he returned in half an hour with his man. The surgeon probed for the bullet, but without success. Then he bandaged Brathland, had him carried up to Raglin's room, and sent for a nurse that he could trust.
"We all regathered in the smoking-room, shut the waiters in the dining-room, and talked the matter over. By this time I was more hideously sober than I ever had been in my life. What they thought of me I neither knew nor cared, and it is doubtful if they knew themselves; their one thought was to keep the matter from getting out and dragging the Club into a scandal; and of course Raglin was equally keen on sheltering the family, whether Brathland lived or died. Anyhow, I fancy they would have stood by me, for if we have no other virtue we do stand by each other.
"Practically the only question was the amount to be paid in blackmail, for every trace of the affair had been removed; even the smell of antiseptics and ether had gone. We finally called the waiters in and offered them four hundred each for their silence, or in the case of Brathland's death—the surgeon held out hopes—a thousand. They coolly replied they would take a thousand apiece before noon on the following day, and ten thousand each in case of death. We—or rather Raglin and one or two others—jawed for an hour; but the wretches never yielded an inch. They had us on the hip and were not likely to be put off by any amount of eloquence. Of course we caved in and God knows what amount of future blackmail the Club is in for. Then there was the thousand for the surgeon, and the nurse would expect a thousand more. Of course I made myself responsible for the entire amount. Raglin insisted for a time upon going halves—blood may be blood, but he had despised Bratty as much as I ever did—but of course I would not hear of it.
"The next afternoon the surgeon probed again, and Brathland died under the ether. The wound after probing looked sufficiently like an ordinary incision to deceive any one. Raglin and Harold Lorcutt—who, of course, was told the truth—naturally had the body sealed up in lead before taking it north. The old duke and the women of the family are in a fair way to know nothing."
He paused abruptly and lifted his eyes once more to Gwynne's, bursting into a laugh that sounded like the crackling of fire under dry leaves.
"Lovely story, ain't it?"
But Gwynne made no reply. His mind, released, was working abnormally, and his face was as livid as his cousin's had been.
Zeal rose. The narrative had excited him out of his apathy and physical exhaustion, the confession shaken the rigidity from his mind. He planted himself on the hearth-rug with an air that approached nonchalance. His thin clever face had a burning spot on either cheek, his sunken eyes were no longer haunted, but brilliant and staring; his thin high nose and fine hands twitched slightly, as if his nerves were enjoying a too sudden release.