“Why don’t you speak?” Jernyngham stormed at Prescott. “You shall not leave the spot until we hear your confession!”
Prescott stood still, looking at him steadily, with pity in his face. He made a striking figure in the glare of light, finely posed, with no sign of shrinking. The others had fixed their eyes on him, and did not notice Muriel move quietly through the shadow of the wooden pillars.
“I have nothing to confess,” he said.
Jernyngham’s fur coat was open and his hand dropped quickly to a pocket. As he brought it out Colston sprang forward, a moment too late; but Muriel was before him, her hand on the man’s arm. There was a flash, a sharp report, and blue smoke curled up toward the veranda, but Prescott stood still, untouched.
“Be quick!” screamed Muriel. “He’s trying to fire again!”
There was no time to be particular. Colston seized the elder man, dragging him backward several paces before he wrenched the pistol from him. Then he paused, breathless, looking about in a half-dazed fashion. Everything had happened with startling suddenness, and the scene under the veranda was an impressive one. His wife clutched one of the pillars as if unnerved. Gertrude leaned against the sidewalk rail, her face tense with horror, and Jernyngham stood with a slackness of carriage which suggested that power of thought and physical force had suddenly left him.
“Jack, are you hurt?” cried Muriel clinging to Prescott.
The tension was relieved by the appearance of the commissioned officer, who sprang out of the hotel with the constable close behind him.
“Shut the door and keep them in!” he ordered.
The constable obeyed, but his efforts were wasted, for men were already hurrying out through the separate entrance to the bar and from an adjoining store. Others ran out from the houses, and the street was rapidly filling with an eager crowd.