“Quite so,” added Lord Pelton, laughing. “Mr. Mackworth mustn’t shift the blame of this on my friend. I assure you, Mrs. Graham, your brother is the guilty person.”
“I thought you gentlemen were going to stand with me in this,” retorted Mr. Mackworth with mock seriousness, “and now you’ve deserted before the fire has begun. Well, here goes, single-handed. How about it, sister? Does Frank go with us, or do we give up the trip? You’re willing, aren’t you, Graham?” he said, turning to that gentleman, who was mixing a summer punch of ginger ale, mint and fruits.
“I think it would be all right,” answered Frank’s father slowly—glancing apprehensively at his wife.
“How did you happen to come to a decision so quickly,” asked Mrs. Graham at once and suspiciously. The sudden color in her husband’s face and the peculiar smile on her brother’s made her laugh outright.
“Come,” she persisted, “I must know what sort of a bribe was used.”
“I haven’t received a thing,” Mr. Graham asserted positively.
“What are you going to receive?” persisted his wife.
“Well,” explained Mr. Mackworth, maintaining his injured look, “I have a present for him. But it isn’t a bribe. You couldn’t suspect me of buying his consent?”
“I could suspect you of anything,” was his sister’s answer. “Let me see the present!”
At a signal from Mr. Mackworth, Frank stepped to the automobile and returned with a heavy leather case—the Greener shotgun from London. As the raised lid revealed the beautifully engraved, blue-black barrel, the eyes of each man—Frank’s included—snapped with envy.