A few yards off, a man stood under a tree. His back was to Margaret, but the dark object across his shoulder was a slung rifle and she thought she knew him. Stannard leaned against a trunk opposite. He wore dinner dress and a loose light coat. He was in the moonlight, and when he shook his head Margaret thought his smile ironical. The other's pose was stiff and his fist was clenched. Margaret put her hand in the pocket of her deerskin coat and then moved a branch. The man turned and his hand went to his rifle. Margaret heard the sling rattle.
"You don't want your gun, Bob; I know you. Besides, I've got a pistol," she said.
Bob swore softly and Stannard lifted his hat.
"Aren't you rather theatrical, Miss Jardine? I imagined gun pulling was out of date."
"Bob's theatrical; but he's slow," Margaret rejoined, and although her heart beat her voice was steady. "I haven't yet pulled my gun."
"It looks as if you had better leave yours alone," Stannard remarked to Bob.
Bob's face got very dark, but Stannard smiled.
"Did you want to see me or the other, Miss Jardine?"
"I want to see Bob first, but you may remain," said Margaret and gave Bob a searching glance. "Who shot warden Douglas?"
"I did not, anyhow," Bob replied fiercely. "I hadn't a gun and when I'd fixed the others I put out my lamp. I'd no use for using the pit-light. The fool plan was Deering's."