I followed him and he shut the door. On the bed was lying Mrs. Armstrong’s pink parasol. The muzzle of an Express rifle stuck out through a hole that had been split in the silk near the ferrule; the stock was hidden by the material. Jim took it out and cleaned it carefully. Then he looked at the parasol and smiled.
“Beyond repair, old man. And since I told the old dear I had dropped her gamp overboard—well—”
He rolled it up slowly and threw it far out through the porthole, then stood for a moment watching it drift.
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the October 1923 issue of McClure’s Magazine.